Memoir of Francis HodgsonJames Thomas Hodgson Markup and editing by David Hill Radcliffe Completed July 2009 FrHodgs.1878 Center for Applied Technologies in the Humanities Virginia Tech
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Lord Byron and his Times: http://lordbyron.org
Memoir of Francis HodgsonJames Thomas HodgsonLondonMacmillan and Co.18782 Vols
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2009-02-26BibliographyBook HistoryCollectionCriticismDramaEphemeraFictionHumorLawLettersLife WritingHistoryManuscriptNonfictionPeriodicalPoliticsReference WorksPoetryReligionReviewTranslationTravel MEMOIR OF THE REV. FRANCIS HODGSON, B.D. SCHOLAR, POET, AND DIVINE With numerous Letters from Lord Byron and others BY HIS SON, THE REV. JAMES T. HODGSON, M.A. IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. I. London MACMILLAN AND CO. 1878
PREFACE.
This Memoir has been compiled from a heterogeneous mass of
letters and papers left, altogether without arrangement, by my father at his death in 1852.
A wish had for many years been entertained that some account should be
placed on record of a life which, though devoid of stirring incident, was yet, from its
connections and sympathies, full of varied interest. It was thought that enough of genius
and culture were displayed by Francis Hodgson to
entitle him to some biographical memoir, while his friendship with Lord Byron seemed to demand a more detailed description than any which
could be derived from fragmentary allusions in the numerous notices of that most
interesting life. It is hoped that a perusal of these pages may tend to remove several misconceptions, to clear away many clouds, which have hitherto
prevented a just appreciation of the character of Byron.
At the outset of my undertaking I was met by two unusual deficiencies.
Modern biography depends in the main upon one or other of two sources of information,
personal recollections or original letters. Neither of these advantages could I command,
and I have therefore been obliged to depart considerably from the method usually adopted.
Acting on the principle that a man may more accurately be known by his friendships than in
any other way, I have endeavoured to make the letters of friends, as far as possible,
illustrative of the life and character of their correspondent; while, by indicating mutual
opinions on matters of contemporary interest, I might contribute to the development of some
aspect of the period social, political, or literary.
That such a novel mode of procedure is liable to much adverse criticism I am
well aware: whether the end has in any measure justified the means must be left to the
consideration of the reader.
CONTENTSOFTHE FIRST VOLUME. CHAPTER I. PAGE
Family
history—Vaughans—Cokes—Mother’s
influence—Entrance at Eton 1
CHAPTER II. 1794-1807.
Eton—Cambridge—Choice of a profession—Early friendships
19
CHAPTER III. 1807-1808.
Translation of Juvenal—Contemporary critiques 51
CHAPTER IV. 1808. PAGE
Extracts from reviews—Letters from William
Gifford and Dr. Ireland—Tutorship at King’s
69
CHAPTER V. 1808-1809.
Commencement of friendship with Lonsdale and
Lord Byron—Notes of the latter on
Pope—His religious impressions—Letters from
Byron and Gifford—Institution of the
‘Quarterly’—Public
oratorship—Political allusions—Lines to Lonsdale94
CHAPTER VI. 1810.
Letters from his father—Political allusions—Imprisonment of
Sir Francis Burdett—Political squibs—Lines by
Denman—Epitaph for
Windham—Father’s death 125
CHAPTER VII. 1811.
Contributions to reviews—Early poems—Lines to
Byron149
CHAPTER VIII. 1811.
Letters from Byron—Meeting in London, and lines
written on the same day—Death of
Matthews—Byron’s first
PAGE
will, and a poem on ‘Newstead Abbey,’ hitherto unpublished 162
CHAPTER IX. 1811.
Correspondence with Byron on religious subjects 191
CHAPTER X. 1811-1812.
Letters from Byron—Meeting at
Cambridge—Prevention by Hodgson of duel between
Byron and Moore—Visit to
Newstead—More letters 209
CHAPTER XI. 1812.
Origin of Bland’s ‘Anthology’—Hodgson’s contributions to
it—Sketch of Bland’s life and passages from his letters
226
CHAPTER XII. 1812-1813.
Correspondence with Drury and
Merivale—A Rugby examination—Assassination of
Perceval—Duke of Gloucester, Chancellor
of Cambridge—Letter from Lonsdale—‘Leaves of Laurel’ 251
CHAPTER XIII. 1813-1814. PAGE
Intended marriage—Byron’s
generosity—Letters from Byron, Rogers,
Prince Lucien Buonaparte, Mrs. Leigh, and
Miss Milbanke267
MEMOIROF THEREV. FRANCIS HODGSON, B.D. CHAPTER I. FAMILY
HISTORY—VAUGHANS—COKES—MOTHER’S
INFLUENCE—ENTRANCE AT ETON.
About the middle of the last century the rectory of Humber, in
Herefordshire, was held by the Rev. James Hodgson.
Born towards the close of the reign of Queen
Anne, in the year 1711, he received his early education at the school of
Hawkshead, in the Lake District, in Lancashire, at that time a school of considerable
importance, at which the poet Wordsworth was
subsequently educated. Ordained to the curacy of Humber, he served that parish for many
years as curate before he was presented to its rectory by King
George III. His sound theological learning, and the
earnest piety of his disposition, are amply attested by the many sensible and practical
sermons which he left; and for the twenty years during which he held the living he appears
to have led the useful, unobtrusive life of a country clergyman, in the faithful discharge
of his parochial duties, and in quiet intercourse with the families in the neighbourhood.
About the year 1735 he married Elizabeth, daughter
of the Rev. Henry Vaughan, vicar of the neighbouring
parish of Leominster.
The general question of hereditary influences is perhaps more fitted for the
discussion of the genealogist than of the biographer; but when characteristic traits are
distinctly noticeable in successive generations of a family, some mention of them in a
biography cannot be considered to be foreign to its subject and purpose. The intense love
of poetry which exercised so strong an influence upon the character of Francis Hodgson, the subject of the present memoir, does
not appear to have been inherited from his father or grandfather, although both exhibited a
fondness for classical compositions in prose and verse. But there is more reason to suppose
that the poetic faculty may have descended to him from the family of Vaughans into which
his grandfather married. It may not therefore be considered altogether irrelevant or un-interesting to mention briefly what is known of
this talented family.
In the short biographical sketch appended to the poems of Henry
Vaughan, the Silurist,1 edited by the Rev. H. F. Lyte, some account is given of its origin. We
there read that
The poet Vaughan was descended from
one of the most ancient and respectable families of the Principality, deducing its
pedigree from the ancient kings of that country. Two of his ancestors, Sir
Roger Vaughan and Sir David Gam, lost their lives
at the battle of Agincourt. His great-grandmother was Lady Frances
Somerset, daughter of Thomas Somerset, third son of
Henry, Earl of Worcester; and the possessions of the Vaughan
family were very extensive, both in Brecknockshire and other parts of Wales. The chief
family residence was the castle of Tretower, in the parish of Cwmdû, and when it
was dismantled, Skethrock or Scethrog, in the same neighbourhood. At this latter place
Shakspeare is said to have paid a visit to
one of the family, and his commentator, Malone,
thinks that it was perhaps there that he picked up the
1 That part of the Welsh border in which the Vaughans
lived was called Siluria.
word ‘Puck,’ concerning the origin of which some of his
critics have been much puzzled. ‘Pooky,’ in Welsh, signifies a goblin, and
near Skethrog exists a valley Cwm-Pooky, the goblin’s vale, which belonged to the
Vaughans, and which a tradition, still extant, states to have been a favourite resort
of some distinguished bard, who had once visited that neighbourhood. From Tretower
Henry Vaughan’s grandfather migrated to Newton in the
parish of Llansainfread, and there, in 1621, the poet was born.
His life presents a pleasing picture of pious learning and loyal devotion to
the cause of his king; and his poetry which is much in the style of George Herbert, although of a more refined character
throughout, is replete with original sentiments clothed in quaint but vigorous language.
It appears probable that the property of the Vaughans was confiscated at the
period of the Commonwealth, sharing the fate which was common to that of many other
adherents of the Royal Cause. Be this as it may, we find as a fact that in the next
generation but one, the vicarage of Leominster, in the same county, was held by the
Rev. Henry Vaughan. The father of the vicar is
known to have been Dr. William Vaughan, probably the son or nephew of the
poet, a physician at Leyden, and subsequently in practice in London and at the court of
Queen Mary, wife of William
III., whom he appears to have previously attended and to have accompanied to
England. In 1676 he married Miss Newton, sister of Sir Henry Newton, who was employed by Queen Anne as envoy-extraordinary to the great Duke of Tuscany,
and to the republic of Genoa. Sir Henry Newton married a
Manning, and his two daughters, Mary and
Catherine, married respectively Henry Rodney,
the father of the distinguished admiral Lord Rodney,
and Lord Aubrey Beauclerk, youngest son of the first
Duke of St. Albans. With the latter lady, who was
his first cousin, Henry Vaughan, vicar of Leominster, had much
interesting correspondence. In one of her letters she begs him to write an epitaph on her
father, Sir Henry Newton, ‘whose life,’ she adds,
‘a gentleman is writing at Gottingen; who writes the life I know not, nor where
Gottingen is at this present.’ The MS. copy of this epitaph by
Henry Vaughan is extant, and is a curious specimen of the lapidary
Latin of the period. An English translation is appended to it, at the close of which its
readers are reminded that
On his return from Genoa (having discharged his high
trust with successful fidelity) he was, by Her Majesty’s Royal munificence,
appointed Master of St. Catharine’s Hospital. In the beginning of the reign of
King George I. he was made judge of the High
Court of Admiralty as a proof of the high esteem that wise prince had of his knowledge
and integrity. A lover he was of good men and by them beloved, but in an especial
manner dear to the renowned Lord Somers, Chancellor
of England; whose friendship was an honour he worthily accounted among the greatest
which he enjoyed. In the execution of his office whilst he was doing his duty, he died.
His most loving wife, mortally wounded with the same stroke, scarcely surviving, sighed
away her breath, faithful companion of his life and death.
Henry Vaughan was acquainted with Dean Swift, and appears to have been a cultivated and
agreeable person. His sermons are sensible and pointed, and his tenure of the vicarage was
distinguished by energy and prudence, to which ample testimony is borne by the ‘History of Leominster,’ lately republished. He was vicar
nearly forty years. During his incumbency many important improvements were made in the
beautiful parish church, now undergoing restoration by Sir Gilbert Scott. The adorning of the altar by
Mr. Locke in 1725, the augmentation of the benefice in 1730 by the
collection of £400, half paid by the parishioners and half by Queen Anne’s Bounty; the grants given by the vestry for the daily
reading of the prayers; the reflooring and levelling of the north aisle in 1734; the
erection of the first organ after the fire in 1737; the increase and recasting of the bells
in 1756: all these various proceedings speak of a good understanding between himself and
his parishioners, and are memorials of his work and usefulness. They are, moreover,
interesting as evidences of religious earnestness at a period which it is the fashion of
the present day to decry as altogether barren of ecclesiastical energy, and equally devoid
of all zeal and practical improvement in matters connected with Church work and discipline.
The vicar died in 1762 aged 75, and was buried by his son-in-law, the
Rev. James Hodgson, rector of Humber, in woollen, pursuant to the statute in that case made and provided.
This statute, which was repealed in the reign of George
III., was passed in 1678 for the encouragement of the woollen trades. He had
two sons, of one of which there remains a copy of poems in manuscript under the title
‘Poematum Miscellaneorum Eruditissimi Domini Gulielmi
Vaughan ex oppido Leominstriae Editio novissima, 1737.’ Their
style is not unlike that of Henry Vaughan, the Swan
of the Usk, of whom mention has been made above, and the poetry comprises a curious
combination of classical and religious subjects, pastoral poems and love songs being
strangely intermingled with arguments against atheism such as, it is to be feared, a modern
sceptic would scarcely consider convincing. Several of these poems are addressed to the
writer’s sister, Mrs. Hodgson.
Henry Vaughan, the favourite physician of George
IV., who, on being created a baronet, assumed the arms and surname of Sir Charles
Halford, whose widow he married; Sir John
Vaughan, judge of the Common Pleas; Dr. Peter
Vaughan, Dean of Chester; and Sir Charles
Vaughan, envoy-extraordinary to the United States, were great-grandsons of
the vicar of Leominster; and Dr. Vaughan, the
present master of the Temple, is his great-great-grandson.
James, the son of James and Elizabeth Hodgson (née Vaughan), was educated at Charterhouse under Dr. Crusius, and matriculated at Christ Church, Oxford, in
1766, where he took the usual degrees. The expenses for taking an M.A. degree a hundred
years ago may be amusingly compared with those of the present day.
£s.d.For a Liceat to do Quodlibets006For Six Wall-Lectures030For a Liceat to do Augustines0140For Ditto to Declamations076For Ditto to Examination0100For the use of Schools and Hoods040To Proctor’s Men020To Dispensations—Regency Degree790To the Xt. Ch: Library0180To the Presenter0106To the Common Room068To Gown1180To Hood1100To Cap076To Scout for Attendance050£1552
In 1771, James Hodgson the younger was
ordained deacon as curate to his father’s church of Humber, in the rectory of which
he subsequently succeeded his father. Two years later he took priest’s orders, and,
being a sound scholar and noted for impressive eloquence in the pulpit, he had not long to
wait for preferment. In 1774, through the influence of the first
Lord Liverpool, who was also a Carthusian, he was appointed by the
Archbishop of Canterbury to the mastership of the school and hospital founded by Archbishop Whitgift at Croydon, to which was attached the neighbouring rectory of Keston. In the following year he
married Jane, daughter of the Rev. Richard Coke of Lower Moor, in his native county of
Herefordshire, and on November 16, 1781, his second son, Francis, was born at Croydon.
The tender affection which Francis
Hodgson ever entertained towards his mother and her family evidently
exercised a strong influence upon his disposition, and hereditary Coke characteristics were
manifested in many traits of his character. A memoir of his life would therefore be
incomplete without some brief notice of this ancient, and, in the case of several of its
members, distinguished family. Further particulars which had been written for this memoir
have been anticipated by the ‘Life of
Lord Melbourne,’ whose descent from the Cokes in the female line was
precisely similar to that of Francis Hodgson.
Originally settled in Derbyshire, the Cokes were located about its borders
from the time of the Norman Conquest. In the ‘History of Melbourne’ in that county it is
stated that the first member of the family actually resident within the limits of
Derbyshire was one Robert Coke, who established himself at Trusley in
the reign of Edward II. His descendants for some
centuries after this were content to enjoy their
position as lords of the land, ambitious only to add lustre to the good name which the
family had held from the remotest antiquity, and to pursue the quiet yet useful lives of
English country gentlemen. It is probable that the Norfolk Cokes, to which the Great
Chief-Justice Sir Edward Coke belonged (of whom,
notwithstanding his many faults, no less an authority than Lord
Bacon has said that ‘Without him the law had been like a ship
without ballast’), and from whom the earls of Leicester are lineally
descended, were a branch of this family. About 1570 Richard Coke
of Trusley married Mary Sacheverell,
who inherited from her father considerable possessions in Nottinghamshire. Their joint
fortune enabled them to acquire possession of Melbourne Castle in South Derbyshire,
originally part of the royal demesne, and annexed by King
John, by a strange caprice of patronage, to the see of Carlisle, as an
episcopal residence. Their eldest son, Sir Francis
Coke, married a daughter of the celebrated Denzil,
Lord Holles; Sir John Coke, his
brother, became Secretary of State to Charles I; while
a third son, George, obtained the see of Bristol and
afterwards that of Hereford. Sir John Coke was a fellow of Trinity
College, Cambridge, in 1584, and was elected to the professorship of rhetoric in that
Univer-sity,1 in which employment he so
distinguished himself by his ingenious and critical lectures, that rhetoric seemed to be
not so much an art to him as his nature. Then after travelling beyond the seas for some
time and returning rich in languages, remarks, and experience, he retired into the country
as a private gentleman until he was more than fifty years of age, when, ‘upon some
reputation he had for industry and diligence, he was called to a painful employment in
the navy, which he discharged well, and was made secretary thereof.’ He was
Secretary of State for about twenty years, representing his University in Parliament; and
Lord Clarendon, who had a strong prejudice against
him, is obliged to confess that the secretary had gotten Latin learning enough,’ and
there are evidences still extant to prove that he was a statesman of no mean capabilities;
prudent, thoughtful, honourable, and endowed with a cultivated taste and polished mind.
The ‘History of
Melbourne’ gives a picturesque account of the ancient art of falconry, to
which the secretary and his son and daughter were particularly attached. They kept several
‘castes’ of falcons, and in their quaint letters make many allusions to hawks
and hawking. Sir John the younger, who was
1Clarendon’sHistory of the
Rebellion.
knighted during his father’s lifetime,
sat in the Long Parliament, and was one of the judges on Strafford’s trial, writes humorously:
Mr. Harpur, son of Sir John Harpur of Calke,
comes often hither (to Melbourne), pretending to see my hawks fly, but in reality to
see my sister.
George Coke, brother to the secretary, was made
Bishop of Bristol in 1632, and translated to Hereford in 1636. He was one of those bishops
who signed the petition and protestation to Charles I.
and the House of Lords against any laws which had been passed during their enforced and
violent absence from the House; and upon the accusation of high treason by the Commons, he
was, with the other subscribers, committed to the Tower of London, where they remained
until the bill for putting them into the House was passed, which was not until many months
after.1 The committee of Hereford confiscated his estates in
the parish of Eardisley, and he was dependent upon his relations for maintenance. Walker, in his ‘Sufferings of the Clergy,’ says that this hard
usage hastened his death, which happened in 1646; though Lloyd says that he bore his sufferings with admirable calmness and
serenity, and adds that he
1Burke’sCommoners of England.
was a pious and learned man. Lord
Clarendon also describes him as meek, grave, and quiet, and much beloved by
those who were subject to his jurisdiction.
The bishop died in 1646, and was buried in Eardisley Church. In Hereford
Cathedral a handsome cenotaph was raised to his memory, which has lately been restored by
some of his descendants. In the inscription on this cenotaph we are told that he ennobled
his generous birth with every instance of virtue worthy of his ancestors; and though every
allowance must be made for the unchastened spirit of the Restoration, in which, as has been
justly observed, the inscription was written, there can be but little doubt that he was a
person of distinguished learning, of great firmness and discretion, and of a singular
piety.
From Secretary Coke was descended the
Right Honourable Thomas Coke, Vice-Chamberlain to
Queen Anne, who married, first, a daughter of Lord
Chesterfield; afterwards, Miss Hale, a maid of honour
to the Queen, remarkable for her beauty and accomplishments. She appears to have been a
favourite with the Duchess of Marlborough, who
describes her as ‘a verie pretty young woman, and of a verie good
family.’ Swift says, in his Journal to Stella:
Mr. Coke, the Vice-Chamberlain, made me a long
visit this morning, but the toast,
his lady, was unfortunately engaged to Lady
Sutherland. She was also on terms of friendship with the poet Gay. Lord
Chesterfield, writing to his daughter, Lady
Mary Coke, complains of his own son, Wootton
Stanhope, and wishes that he was like her husband, Mr.
Coke, and adds: ‘If in his place I had a son like your husband,
I should have gone out of the world with the satisfaction of believing that I had
left one behind me who would make one of the greatest men in
England.’ Mr. Coke’s society was much
sought by the wits and fine gentlemen of the day. With Lord
Bolingbroke, particularly, he was on terms of the greatest intimacy;
with the great Duke and Duchess of Marlborough he was well acquainted, and is said to have been
the original of Pope’sSir Plume in the ‘Rape of the Lock.’
Charlotte Coke, daughter of the Vice-Chamberlain, in
1755 married Sir Matthew Lamb, and (her brother dying
without issue) succeeded to Melbourne Castle, which thus became the property of her
husband’s family, and gave his title to her son, the first
Lord Melbourne, the father of the great Prime
Minister.
The wife of the Rev. James Hodgson was
de-scended in the direct male line from the Bishop of Hereford. She died at the early age of
thirty-six, and her son, Francis, cherished her memory with
affectionate reverence to the last years of his life. Her husband has left a touching
tribute to her worth, written soon after her death, which gives some idea of the pure
maternal influences which, doubtless, had no slight share in developing the gentle and
deeply religious temperament of her son.
She was naturally disposed to be grave and serious in her manners, and
even in youth had none of that trifling levity which is so common in the generality of
young people. . . . Ever to be honoured as well as loved, she had such a gentleness,
such a graceful composure in all she said and did, such a desire to oblige, such a
modest attention to her friends, as made her company more delightful than I can now
express. Fond of retirement, her sole study was my happiness and welfare, and that of
her children and family. Her steady perseverance in what her strong good sense showed
her was right, her scorn of whatever was extravagant, mean, or base, her superiority to
all that was vain or frivolous, the decided preference which she gave to what was solid
and useful to all that was showy and unnecessary, were excellencies that place her above most married women. But as a mother she shone
with still brighter lustre. It was with her a most sacred duty to attend to every
circumstance that was nearly or remotely connected with the health and improvement of
her children; she never, in any one instance, nor in the most trying situations,
remitted in the smallest degree that love and anxious care she felt for them. Sleep,
and food, and friends, and health, all were sacrificed to them. She lived for them, and
her end was probably accelerated by her unwearied solicitude for their good. Her
religious principles, formed by education, were confirmed by reflection and the daily
practice of prayer and reading the Scriptures, which were her chief delight. Her
sincere faith in the Gospel supported her alike in sorrows and sickness, and, speaking
peace at the last, enabled her to meet her fate with the same composed resignation
which she possessed in all her life.
Francis Hodgson himself always attributed his
intense fondness for Holy Scripture to his early religious training and to the daily
reading of the Psalms at his mother’s knee. He felt her loss keenly for many years
after her death, which occurred when he was quite young. His elementary classical education was conducted by his father, of whom he writes in terms of
deep gratitude and affection; and in July 1794 he was sent to Eton, passed his examination
for college at that election, and so first became a member of that great foundation, over
which, after the lapse of nearly half a century, he was destined to preside as Provost.
CHAPTER II. ETON—CAMBRIDGE—CHOICE OF A PROFESSION—EARLY FRIENDSHIPS. 1794—1807.
Of Eton life at the end of the last and beginning of the present
century there is no very exact record. Although the discomforts of Long Chamber, the abuse
of the fagging system, and the other various defects of diet, discipline, and accommodation
which have so often and so feelingly been described by those who were subjected to them,
had not, perhaps, at this period, reached their height, yet the condition of the collegers
was certainly not such as Henry VI. intended it to be,
and Hodgson, from boyhood until the end of his life,
always entertained earnest wishes for its improvement. How these wishes were eventually
fulfilled the account of his Provostship will show.
Mr. John Keate, afterwards the renowned Head Master
Dr. Keate, was Hodgson’s tutor at Eton, and maintained a cordial friendship with him
throughout his life. When in 1840 it was suggested to
Hodgson that he should stand for the Provostship, he refused to do
so until he had ascertained that his old friend and tutor had ceased to desire it.
Among his Eton contemporaries were many boys who were subsequently
distinguished in Church and State. William Lamb,
afterwards the great Lord Melbourne, John
Bird Sumner, Archbishop of Canterbury, Lancelot
Shadwell, the Vice-Chancellor, George
Thackeray, Provost of King’s College, Cambridge, Henry Drury, the distinguished Harrow Master, were, by a
few years, his seniors at Eton; while among his juniors were Scrope Davies and Charles Skinner
Matthews, of both of whom Byron has left
an interesting account, John Lonsdale, Bishop of
Lichfield, Benjamin Heath Drury, the witty and
original Eton Master, and Gally Knight, the
antiquary and writer upon art. With all of these Hodgson was more or
less intimate in after years; while with Edward Craven
Hawtrey, who was several years younger, he subsequently formed a warm
friendship which he maintained until the end of his life.
At Eton his love of learning was fully indulged, and he wandered widely over
the fields of French and English literature without, in any measure, sacrificing that
which, at the period of which we are speaking, was considered the one essential of an Eton
education, classical scholarship, elegant as well as accurate. A manuscript copy of his
‘Ludi Juveniles,’ written in 1798, contains many
Greek and Latin verses of a very high order of merit, while the soundness and solidity of
his classical knowledge is amply attested by several terse and vigorous Latin essays. In
1799 he was elected to a scholarship at King’s College, Cambridge, where he took the
usual degrees, being excluded from public classical competition by the prejudicial
restrictions then imposed upon Kingsmen. His own description of his college at this period
expresses forcibly how detrimental such restrictions were to the best interests of
University education.
Our having all been at the same school certainly deadened emulation by
placing us in that rank at Cambridge in which we relatively stood at Eton. Neither had
we any public honours to contend for; and ambition thus too often expired in indolence.
The force of this observation is not materially affected by the fact that
King’s is pre-eminent among colleges for the number of its distinguished
‘alumni.’ The excellence of the Eton education which all Kingsmen had
previously enjoyed was at all times exceptional, and the impossibility of gaining
Univer-sity distinction may have acted as an incentive to increased
exertion in the great contest of life, upon those ardent spirits who did not accept the
honours which their Alma Mater can bestow as the highest summit of human ambition. One of
the necessary evils of the competitive system is undoubtedly to be found in the fact that
in many cases it affixes too final and conclusive an estimate of a young man’s
powers. If in his own opinion, as well as in that of his contemporaries, a youth of
twenty-two or twenty-three leaves college with the brand of a second or third class upon
him, there is certainly danger, unless his temperament is unusually sanguine, that he
should accept the examiner’s decision as final. It may be argued with undoubted truth
that real merit will make its way against all such temporary obstacles; but when we
consider the many circumstances which may contribute to unmerited failure—such, for
instance, as illness at the times of the examinations, the almost irresistible influences
of a fast and noisy college, the want of pecuniary means to complete the full University
career, too often necessitating the work of tuition in vacations in order to eke out a
scanty income—we cannot but feel the utter unfairness of which many narrow-minded
persons are guilty when they accept that certificate as final which in reality merely announces what a man has done at a certain
period of his life, and gives no conclusive clue whatever to what he can do.
One special advantage may, moreover, be mentioned in connection with the
absence of competitive examinations. Not being required to be constantly engaged in
preparation of a special character, a naturally studious youth had leisure for far more
extensive reading than would otherwise have been possible, and perhaps was sufficiently
compensated for the loss of University prizes by the acquirement of a wider and more
general stock of knowledge.
But notwithstanding the impossibility of public competition, Francis Hodgson’s abilities were not overlooked, and
by those of his contemporaries who were most competent to judge he was considered as one of
the best classical scholars of his time at Cambridge.
His vacations were spent chiefly at Croydon, and at Lower Moor in
Herefordshire, the home of his mother’s kindred, the Cokes; and his home studies,
carried on under his father’s supervision, were participated in by a young nobleman,
who was destined to attain to the highest eminence. Two of his father’s pupils at
this time were sons of a brother-Carthusian the first Lord
Liverpool. The eldest of these brothers, then Lord Hawkesbury, became afterwards, as second Lord Liverpool,
one of the most illustrious Prime Ministers who ever presided over the destinies of this
country. With him Mr. Hodgson read, among other subjects, Locke’s two great works on ‘The Conduct of the Understanding’ and
‘The Essay on the Human
Understanding;’ and it was, doubtless, during these early holiday readings
that Francis Hodgson imbibed that taste for
metaphysical studies which subsequently led to his being appointed to the lectureship on
metaphysics in his college. With the younger brother1, Cecil Jenkinson, who was a few years his junior,
Hodgson formed a warm boyish friendship, and in their studies and
amusements they appear to have derived mutual satisfaction from one another’s
society. The following are some of the authors which are recorded as having been among
those which they read together:—Plato, Demosthenes, Homer,
Cicero (with ‘Middleton’s Life’), Sir W. Raleigh’s ‘Persian History,’ Bacon on ‘The
Advancement of Learning.’ Lord Liverpool’s
views on his son’s education, though full of sound sense and judgment, may,
doubtless, be thought peculiar in the present day. But they are interesting as an
illustration of the idea of a liberal education entertained by an
1 Afterwards third Lord Liverpool.
intelligent nobleman at the commencement of the
present century.
Greek.
To read Herodotus till Cecil appears tired of it. Then to read Xenophon’s ‘Anabasis,’ and then to read Plato’s ‘Phædo’ and some of his other dialogues.
Whenever he has finished these, which will probably be in the course of the year, then
to resume Homer, and to read about eight more books, as Mr.
Hall says the Westminster scholars always read in the whole twelve books
before they come to Christ Church, and never more.
Latin.
To begin with reading the ‘Third Decad of Livy,’ or some part of Cicero’s works, or to take them occasionally, one after the
other. Of Cicero’s works Lord L. doubts whether Cecil had not
better read the ‘Quæstiones Academicæ;’
and he is of opinion that he should continue to read one or other of these books till
the beginning of the summer, when he may read two of the ‘Satires’ of Juvenal—that is,
those translated by Johnson—and one of the
best ‘Satires’ of Persius. These will
lead him to read with effect Horace’s
‘Epistles and Satires;’ his understanding will by that
time probably be equal fully to comprehend the sense and wit of
Horace’s writings, and he will be able to compare the
different characters of the three Roman satirists. Lord Liverpool
wishes that Cecil’s reading in Latin with Mr. Hodgson may conclude with a book or two of
Tacitus; but this should be his last business.
Any intermediate time may be filled up with reading again Virgil’s ‘Georgics,’ some of Martial’s best ‘Epigrams,’ or a play or two of
Terence, or perhaps a book of Claudian.
English.
Cecil has read so many English books that Lord L. is at a loss to recommend what book he should
read after he has finished Sir Walter
Raleigh’sHistory. He has lent him Lord
Molesworth’s account of ‘The Revolution in Denmark,’ and an old
‘History of the Czar Peter the
First.’ Lord Molesworth’s book is an
excellent one, and he wishes him to read this soon, because he may then read Vertot’s ‘Revolutions of Sweden,’ which contains a
short but excellent account of the history of that country to the death of the first
Gustavus, and this book is truly classical. He
should then read the life of Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden, who,
in conjunction with Cardinal Richelieu, broke
the power of the House of Austria. He may then read Voltaire’s ‘Charles XII.,’ who destroyed the power of the Swedish monarchy by his
mad conceits. This is an amusing book, but not a good one. He may also read
Vertot’s ‘Revolution of Portugal,’ which is
excellent, and as amusing as any novel that ever was written. Lord
Liverpool will send him Cartesa’s ‘History of Catharine II.,’ which Lord
H.1 commends greatly, and says it contains more
information respecting the Russian empire than any book he ever met with. It is
singular that Cecil hardly ever reads either any English or French
poetry. He has said repeatedly to Lord L. that he ought to read
these books and that he is determined to read them, though they give him no great
pleasure; and it is observable that after he has begun any book of this kind he
generally lays it aside. It would not be right to press him upon this point; he will
probably take these sorts of books up, at some future period, when he can relish them;
but Lord L. submits to Mr.
Hodgson whether, when they are in want of some English book to read
together, they
1Lord Holland
(?).
might not read Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost,’ and perhaps Shakespeare’s play of ‘Othello,’ which in point of composition is
the most correct of all his plays.
Mathematics.
Cecil, while he has been at home during these short
holidays, has applied himself to Algebra, and appears to have made some progress in it
and begins to find it not difficult. He should be left to proceed in this branch of
knowledge as his inclination may direct him.—In the foregoing plan Lord L. has endeavoured to trace his general ideas, as it
will be some time now before he returns to Addiscombe. He does not mean, however, that
these ideas should be pursued either in contradiction to the judgment of Mr. Hodgson, or to any particular inclinations which
Cecil may occasionally disclose. He is certain that the best
way of instructing a young man, with a view to eminence, is to suffer him to pursue
those studies for which he shows the greatest inclination, and to which his talents are
more particularly fitted.
This plan was supplemented by a letter written soon afterwards.
London: January 4, 1800.
Dear Sir,—I have thought much on the paper I gave you
respecting the future plan of Cecil’s
education. I wrote it in a great hurry, and traced out in general what occurred
to me. I wish only that such parts of it may be executed, as may appear to you
to be practicable, and may not, from its labour, give any disgust to my son; my
great object, however, is that as long as he is under your tuition, he should
direct his principal attention to the Greek and Latin languages. His general
reading both in English and French has been so very extensive, and so far
exceeds what has usually been read by a person of his age, that any further
progress therein ought to give way to his improvement in the two learned
languages. These he can only learn at present. The former he may resume at any
time, and I have no doubt that his natural disposition will incline him to
resume it. I have already observed, in the paper I gave you, that as his
pursuit in mathematics is a favourite object of his own he should be left to
proceed in that at leisure times as his inclination may direct him. I am sorry
to give you this trouble, but I have thought it right in this manner freely to
explain myself, as you must be sensible how much I have this object at heart,
and how much I am interested in my son’s future
welfare. I beg my best compliments to Mrs.
Hodgson, and I am, my dear sir, with great regard,
Your faithful, humble servant, Liverpool.
A boyish letter from the subject of this anxious father’s solicitude
to his friend Francis Hodgson, at Cambridge,
presents, in its light-hearted simplicity, an amusing contrast.
My dear Frank,—I must make you a great many apologies for
not having written before, which I assure you I have not had time to do. We
have gone on in the old way since I saw you, and have finished the ‘Life of Agricola’ and the
third book of Xenophon’s ‘Anabasis.’ I was glad to
hear you were so fortunate as to meet with some of your friends in the
stage-coach in which you returned to Cambridge. I hope you do not find the
college very empty and dull. I have, since you left Croydon, read that novel
you were so much pleased with, ‘Castle St. Donats.’ I like it very
much, except the last volume. Is Bacon returned to
college? if he is, pray remember me to him. Your father has begun to make preparations for his departure hence; we next week remove to the
dining-room, and prosecute our studies there, as the library is to be totally
gutted. Pray write to me soon and let me know how ‘Josephus’ goes on, which Mr.
H. informs me you have begun. I have been but once a-shooting
since I saw you; I shot one snipe, the first I ever killed in my life. Have you
been after the hounds lately?
I am, dear Frank, Yours sincerely, C. Jenkinson.
The departure alluded to in this letter refers to Mr. Hodgson’s removal to Barwick-in-Elmet, near
Leeds, a valuable Yorkshire living which Lord
Liverpool’s influence had procured for him from the Chancellor. This removal, although it brought with it an
increase of fortune, must, for many reasons, have been a source of regret. The
neighbourhood of Croydon at this period was by no means devoid of interest. From 1793 to
1802 the vicarage was held by the Rev. John Ireland,
afterwards the distinguished Dean of Westminster, and founder of the Greek scholarship at
Oxford which bears his name; and his old friend and schoolfellow William Gifford, author of the ‘Baviad’ and ‘Mæviad,’ and editor of the ‘Quarterly Review,’ was a frequent visitor at the vicarage. Both of these
eminent scholars and men of letters were acquainted with Francis
Hodgson in his youth and early manhood, and took a kindly and considerate
interest in his career.
About the year 1800 Louis Philippe
paid a visit to Addiscombe, and young Hodgson had
the honour of meeting him—an honour which was renewed under somewhat different
circumstances forty years afterwards, at Windsor Castle.
At Cambridge several valuable friendships were added to those already formed
at Eton and Croydon. Thomas Denman, the future Chief
Justice, and John Herman Merivale, were
undergraduates at St. John’s; Robert Bland,
editor of the ‘Anthology,’ was at Pembroke; Harry
Drury was a fellow of King’s. With all of these Hodgson formed affectionate intimacies, which were only
terminated by death. A kind of club was founded for the promotion of good fellowship and
sociability; letters were constantly interchanged in prose and verse, on subjects of
religion, politics, philosophy, classical and modern literature; and the warmest interest
was maintained by these kindred spirits in their mutual advancement and success. About the
year 1801 Harry Drury was appointed to a classical mastership at
Harrow, and Hodgson writes to him from Hawtrey’s1 rooms at King’s:—
Dear Drury,—I am
heartily glad to hear that you have recovered your health so far as to go into
school. Bethell2
reports this, and your brother3 tells me you hoped to
do so when you last wrote to him. I hope you are now in no danger of a relapse,
and have dismissed your glomy ideas as to retaining an enemy within: Musis amicus tristitiam et metus Tradas severis in caput hostium Portare curis. I promised you last night the conclusion of my long strain of nonsense.
Here follow some half-humorous, half-serious lines on matters
of mutual interest, a few of which may be quoted as an amusing comment on
public school manners and customs of the period, and as proving the
writer’s early desire for their amendment.
Yes, I could wish our rich and noble fools Restrain’d in vices and curtail’d in dress; Much could I wish that all our public schools 4 Were better managed or encouraged less.
1 Afterwards Vicar of Broad Chalke, Wilts, and
uncle to Provost Hawtrey. 2 Fellow of Eton.
3Benjamin Drury, Master at Eton. 4 Except Harrow, of course.—F. H.
If learning’s stores were open to the mind, If emulation woke the dormant flame, If labour nerved us, ere we simply dined, And weekly washings exercised my dame. If holy worship claim’d respectful awe, If good example taught the young to pray, If Decency did not proceed from Law, Nor discipline usurp the Sabbath Day.
You shall have no more original farrago for some time. But
now you have got into school again, I shall hope to hear oftener from you;
perhaps you’ll say you are more engaged, but I know at night you can find
time to send me some poetry. I mean to begin the study of history from the
Creation—old A. recommends Josephus.
Is it not better to read in English what is not well done in Greek or Latin?
Prettyman and Prideaux are surely preferable to
Josephus and Dio
Cassius. Dr. A. has written a plan of study, and says from
Lipsius ‘Triennii res
est.’ Now two years of my scholarship are over, and I
don’t think ten would suffice to get through the doctor’s plan. It
was sent from Croydon to a young nobleman here many years ago. He never looked
into it, and I must confess it frightens me. Enough of Mr.
Erskine’s monosyllable here, you’ll say. Is not Wegotism a good name for that style, which, in-stead of ‘Ego et
mea,’ pesters you with ‘nos
nostraque’ when used by only one author? B. is very
correct, and as good-natured and stupid as ever. Adieu, and believe me yours
sincerely,
F. H.
P.S. Pray send me your translations from Statius. I don’t mind double or even
treble letters.
When single letters cost a shilling this was a stronger proof of friendship
than it might be considered in the present day.
Having taken his degree, Hodgson
obtained a private tutorship to the sons of Lady Ann
Lambton, who had been married a second time to Mr. Wyndham. The eldest of these pupils was afterwards created Earl of Durham, and attained considerable eminence as
Governor-General of British North America. His sister married Byron’s relative,
Major Howard, who fell at Waterloo, and to whom
so touching an allusion is made in the Third Canto of ‘Childe Harold.’
This charge continued three years, and Hodgson appears to have felt the restraint extremely irksome, and to have
constantly chafed at the drudgery of ‘gerund-grinding,’ although he speaks with
gratitude of the kindness and consideration which he experi-enced. His
genial and affectionate nature longed for the society of his friends, and found its chief
consolation in constant correspondence. It was about this time that he conceived the idea
of writing a translation of ‘Juvenal,’ and
this occupation also afforded considerable relief to a mind which was daily growing more
and more melancholy while engaged in the tedious pursuits which were necessarily imposed
upon it.
During a vacation spent in Devonshire he paid a visit to his friend’s
father, the former head master of Harrow, of whom Byron
used to speak as the dear Drury, in
contradistinction to his successor, whom he maliciously designated the cheap Butler, but whom he afterwards learned to estimate at his
proper value. To Dr. Drury’s kindly appreciation of youthful
talent Hodgson bears testimony in a letter written from Exmouth to his
friend at Harrow.
I am sitting in a room which looks immediately upon your father’s
house. There I have had a look at it. We returned from Cockwood1 yesterday after a very pleasant stay of two days. It was to me quite a
delightful break. On the Thursday Sir George
Dallas, rather a quiz, but good-humoured and entertaining; Mr.
Blencowe, a most clever and gentlemanly old Etonian, who told many good
1Dr.
Drury’s.
stories which are for your future ear;
Mr. Hoare, an interesting deaf person (quite unlike the
Provost of King’s1), your father and mother,
Charles Nicholson, and I were of the party. On Friday morning
I got up early and transcribed some parallel passages from Boileau, and some illustrations from Dio in the library. I have given your father the conclusion of my tenth
Satire. He has been of considerable service to me with regard to accuracy in the former
parts; and he very kindly took an interest in my notes, referred to Denon, Tacitus,
Pausanias, &c. (but you had stolen the
Strabo), and threw much light upon Ombites and
Tentyrkes and Memnon’s statue. I
congratulated him upon your success at Harrow. He said he hoped you would not build,
and asked me if I did not think he had built enough for you at Cockwood. Upon the whole
I had a most agreeable visit, and before I leave Exmouth shall certainly take advantage
of his reinvitation and go and see him again.
This second visit elicited one of those rhyming epistles in which Hodgson and his friends were wont to communicate to one
another their current fancies and feelings on subjects of mutual interest, and from
1Humphrey
Sumner.
which a few extracts may be found interesting, not only from their
natural ease and freshness but as specimens of a style of correspondence which has now long
been obsolete.
The same to the same.
Clifton: Wednesday night.
Dear Drury,—We
go to Chepstow to-morrow. On Sunday Mr.
Merivale very kindly took us to Fordlands, &c, &c., a
beautiful drive, and dined with us at Cockwood, where I slept, and went, next
morning, to Bishop’s Teignton, to see my uncle and aunt. On the road I
made the following verses for you:—
Alone, on horseback, from the wood of Cock, To Dawlish town I took my early way, View’d the mild ocean from the lofty rock, And felt the cooling breath of pleasant May. Now every field in smiling green array’d, Puts forth the promise of the fruitful spring, The rising hedgerows shoot a deeper shade, And joyous birds in flowery meadows sing. I too to friendship raise the glowing strain, Warn’d by remembrance of my Father’s home, In careless dreams shake off my servile chain, And far to Harrow’s verdant upland roam. Oh soon exulting o’er the much-loved hill, By Freedom led thy happy friend shall run, See the proud aspens lift their honours still, And the vale glittering with the genial sun. And soon o’er Uxbridge’ rabbit-cover’d moor Shall stumbling Lightfoot1 show
his speckled gray, We’ll haste delighted to our Osborne’s
door, And spend with him a memorable day. Haply at times, when eve remits your toil, We’ll range together o’er the dewy field, And press with eager step the turfy soil, On thy light down, O distant Harrow weald. And then, should Fancy with seductive eye Onward to Stanmore’s environs allure, Should Reservoir excite a tender sigh, This faithful heart shall offer Friendship’s
cure. Back to their cottage shall the brothers go, And sit conversing o’er the social board, Share equal portions of imparted woe, And share the joy poetic dreams afford.
Lower Moor:2 June 2.
Dear Drury,—All
intermediate accounts must be deferred till we meet. Suffice it to say now that
I have found, as ever from childhood, an affectionate reception here. We leave
the place on Saturday, I believe, and before the end of the next week, perhaps,
we may meet. But now consider in secret this important question, that you may
be able to decide upon your friend’s future prospects in life. Denman has offered me a private tutorship to the
son of a Mr. Oswald of Ayrshire, a very rich man,
1 A favourite horse. 2 The Rev. Francis
Coke’s.
the boy going to Eton. But I cannot conquer my aversion to
private tutorships. The Law all my friends set their faces against. Give me
your advice, when we meet.
F. H.
Another letter written in a similar strain of anxious uncertainty concludes
with a few somewhat desponding lines in anticipation of the flight of time.
Then age a gloom on all our club shall throw, And sterner wisdom sit on Denman’s brow; Vocal no more, shall Bland’s high
spirits fall, And Walford’s treble voice be none at
all. Then Nature’s sons shall learn dishonest art, And e’en my Merivale be hard of heart. O long protracted be the fatal day, That steals, unpitying, all our joys away, The joke, the gybe, the jeer, that only find A moment’s meaning in the kindred mind.
John Herman Merivale, alluded to in these lines,
fully deserved the implied compliment. A kinder-hearted man, or one more unselfishly
interested in his friend’s welfare, never breathed. Hearing that Hodgson was dissatisfied and depressed by his present
circumstances, he wrote the following cheerful effusion:—
Dear Hodgson,—In
the letter which Bland and I,
desultorily as usual, composed at the half-way house last Saturday I said nothing on the
subject of yours which I had just then received—because of course I said
not a word to him about it. But your melancholy strains gave me much room for
reflection both going and coming; and reflection presented itself in a poetical
form. Such as my thoughts were, take them.
Life is not made to flow in smooth delight, Nor to be lost in unavailing sorrow; It is a chequer’d scene of dark and light, The clouds scarce form’d to-day may burst
to-morrow. It is for action given, for mental force, For deeds of energetic hardihood; There is no time for wailing and remorse, There is no room for dreary solitude. There is no day doth pass but teems with fate, No fleeting hour but alteration brings; O’er this our perishable mortal state Variety for ever waves her wings. Vain is the lay, tho’ couch’d in sacred writ, That Israel’s fastidious monarch sung, Tho’ since usurp’d by many an idle wit, By many a melancholy sophist’s tongue. Let not my ‘Narva’1 then of change complain, A change which governs our sublunar sphere; Nor waste in fond regret and listless pain The hours assign’d to generous action here.
1 The name of a book which the friends had
lately been reading, and the title of which was transferred as a
soubriquet to Hodgson.
The dreams of lawless youth, ’tis true, are fled, The glass brisk-circling and the jovial song, The careless heart, the wild fantastic head That to the early burst of life belong;— All these are past;—perhaps with them are flown Some cherished visions yet more closely twined, Which soon Delusion fondly called her own, And Fate, unpitying, claims to be resign’d. Perhaps the parting pang was worse than all That studious tyrants could invent of pain; Perhaps—but ah! thy tortured thoughts recall, Think what remains in life,—awake again! Has fickle Fancy fled? Yet Friendship lives, And breathes a balm into the wounded heart. Firm, faithful Friendship, which survives The storms of Hate, and never will depart. Are youth’s chimæras check’d? Ambition glows With fiercer heat in our maturer age, Honour is left—the foe to dull repose— And points a hard, but glorious pilgrimage. And shall, my ‘Narva,’ such a soul as
thine, So bright with genius, and in vigour warm, Now, at the very prime of life, decline, Nor burst again through Fortune’s partial storm? Perish the thought! for nobler objects made— Let nobler resolutions fire thy soul; Call Honour, Virtue, Courage, to thy aid, And let warm Friendship still inspire the whole.
Did you write the review of Dermody?1 I was
de-
1Thomas
Dermody, a young Irish bard, whose principal poems were
‘The Battle of
the Bards’ and ‘The Reform.’ The review was by
Hodgson.
lighted with it. Edinburgh critics I have not read; but if they
abuse the wretch Heaven have mercy on their black souls, say I. Write to me
from the road, and
Believe me Ever your most affectionate friend, J. H. Merivale.
The attractions of London life for a young man appear not to have been lost
upon Hodgson, from a description written by him a few years later.
It is impossible that anyone, who has not experienced the first
captivation of London, for ardent spirits, high health, and lively fancy in youth,
should fairly appreciate so dangerous a charm. It is not merely the more refined
luxuries of the idle bachelor’s life; not the new sights, nor even the immense
superiority of intellectual resources, in which that wondrous city abounds, to a degree
that makes the University seem perfectly Bœotian to an incompetent observer; it is
not all this together; it is the delightful society of intelligent young men, on whom
life has begun to open; and to whose knowledge of the world the
school or college attainments of their younger acquaintance seems utter ignorance and
stupidity. Alas! that knowledge of the world.
In 1806 he was appointed to a mastership at Eton, which he held for one
year, and it was about this time that he first conceived the idea of translating Juvenal. Notwithstanding his innate dislike for teaching, this
period of his life appears to have been sufficiently bright and joyous. He was extremely
fond of all athletic exercises, for which by a robust and active frame he was eminently
fitted, and was an excellent pedestrian. He more than once walked from Cambridge to London
in a day, and thought nothing of a walk from London to Eton. He fully appreciated his many
delightful friendships, and thoroughly enjoyed his holidays in Yorkshire, in his
father’s society, or with his Coke relations in Herefordshire. Of his father he
speaks in terms of grateful affection.
I acquired much from his clear command of his own knowledge, and from a
kindness of heart which one could not approach without improvement; I truly honour his
memory.
His own description of 1806-7, when he was first set free from the
restraints necessarily imposed by a private tutorship, is an evidence of the happiness of
his life at that time.
How different now the paths of life appear’d, Girt all the way with banks of varied flowers; Refresh’d by wit, by gay companions cheer’d, How lightly flew the perishable hours! Musing, I sailed down Richmond’s fabled stream; Musing, I roam’d to Harrow’s verdant height! The great Aquinian fill’d my glowing
dream, And Fame’s imagined temple rose in sight.
His translation of Juvenal was begun and
completed in about a year, during these solitary rambles and in a visit to Yorkshire.
The busy literary life which he was now leading is vividly described by
Bland, who was then staying with him at Eton, in
a letter* to Denman.
With the very little drop of ink remaining in the horn after the two
epic poems, the six periodical papers, besides several epigrams, anagrams, and other
things ending in ‘grams,’ and an infinite number of songs, sonnets,
rebuses, pasquinades, and some things ‘unattempted yet in prose or rhyme,’
which Hodgson has written since breakfast up to
this hour—twelve o’clock (not forgetting construing his boys and answering
duns)—with that very little drop of ink remaining, I have to request of you,
Denman, to order Merry’s (Meri-
1 Quoted by Sir Joseph
Arnould in his Memoir of Lord Denman.
vale’s) rooms to be opened, with sheets aired and a fire, on
next Tuesday. . . . Hodgson is writing opposite to me in measured
English, and has absolutely distanced me, who write almost in a desultory style.
It was about this time that the Bar was contemplated as a profession, and
Denman’s advice was asked on the subject.
Denman knew enough of his friend’s character to be convinced
that such a friend to the Muses must lay aside all prospect of forensic preferment, and
accordingly wrote the following characteristic letter of advice:—
My dear Hodgson,—You are mistaken in supposing that my communication
of Mr. Oswald’s proposal proceeded from a despair of
your succeeding in the Law; on the contrary, I think that, if all other methods
fail, the Law may offer the highest opportunities of honour and emolument to
talents such as yours. At the same time, if you ask my frank opinion which
course is the most advisable, I cannot hesitate to recommend one trial more,
even of the loathsome task of tutorship, before you enter on this hazardous
profession. The expense it imposes is enormous, the labour unremitting, the
advantages most doubtful and remote. . . .
You mention reviewing as a means of procuring money; indeed
it would be totally inconsistent with that complete devotion and abandonment to
the Law which could alone give a probability of success. It is the duty of
friendship to state these circumstances and offer this counsel, but if your
aversion is unconquerable, remember that even the Law may be forced by labor improbus; that Vevers’s1 chambers are open to receive you, and that it was his
most ardent wish to have them occupied by you; that it may be in my power and
would be my delight to shorten your trouble and elucidate your views on legal
subjects; and that Merry and myself
should rejoice to call you fellow-labourer in the same vineyard. Occasions do
certainly occur in which general abilities are called into immediate action,
and kept in constant employment; if such occurred to you, no doubt your fame
and fortunes would be fixed at once; but that ‘if’ is a talisman
which hardly any power of magic can command.
This letter seems much more calculated to perplex than
enlighten you; it is a picture of my own wavering and unsteady mind (!), which
has poured out all its thoughts upon the subject as they arose.
1Denman’s brother-in-law.
You will be sure that they are dictated by the warmest
friendship and attachment, for God knows that (after my domestic feelings) no
wish is so near my heart as that of seeing you independent and happy. I repeat
the word independent, though it will not meet your ideas of tutorship, for I am
sure it is fully as applicable to that position as his who lives on the smiles
of attorneys.
Your sincere friend, Thos. Denman.
The wisdom of this advice was at once recognised by its recipient, who
henceforth abandoned all idea of the legal profession. His intense love of literature, and
especially of poetry, would have, doubtless, constantly acted as an inducement to seek
relief and mental relaxation in fresher fields than those which environ Lincoln’s
Inn; and the precarious prospect of advancement which attends even unceasing and undivided
industry at the Bar, would have become proportionately smaller to one who looked upon it
less as a profession than as a means of subsistence, and of more freely gratifying literary
tastes and inclinations.
Denman’s kind and timely counsel determined his
future course, and from this year until the end of his life he devoted his time and thoughts
exclusively to religion, education, and literature. He had already for some time been
engaged in writing for reviews, a pursuit which he continued unremittingly for the next ten
years, and during this period he also published many original poems and translations from
the classics. Of the latter the most important was the translation of Juvenal, which will presently engage our attention, while the
number and variety of the former entirely preclude their reproduction in this memoir. Even
in the shape of samples or in the more fragmentary form of extracts, they would convey a
most inadequate impression of their writer’s power and versatility; and those few
verses which are quoted are merely intended to illustrate some passing incident, or to
indicate the mental tone at the time of their composition.
The friendships already mentioned or implied in the correspondence were
cherished with undiminished warmth, while fresh intimacies were formed of a no less
interesting character. One, in particular, will demand a detailed description in several
subsequent chapters. It was not later than the following year to that in which he returned
to Eton as a master that Hodgson became the honoured
friend and associate of that brilliant but hapless youth of whom one of
England’s greatest historians has recorded that he was the most celebrated Englishman
of the nineteenth century.
CHAPTER III. TRANSLATION OF JUVENAL—CONTEMPORARY CRITIQUES. 1807-8.
The translation of Juvenal, to which reference has already been made, appears to have been
undertaken partly from admiration of the force and grandeur of the poetry, partly from a
desire to make the great satirist more accessible to the majority of English readers, and
thereby to apply his vigorous teaching to the vices and follies of the age.
It must be admitted that there never was a time when English morals more
required the strong scourge of satire than the first two decades of the present century.
The shameless intrigues of the Prince Regent were but a
type of the prevailing immorality, and might well be compared to the excesses of those
Roman emperors whose examples were polluting the Imperial city at the time when Juvenal wrote. London at the beginning of the nineteenth
century of the Christian era was not much better than Rome in the
first. The comparison must often have suggested itself to classical scholars.
The design and scope of this translation will most readily be understood by
an epitome of the Introduction written by its author.
It is with the utmost diffidence (he writes) that I offer to the notice
of the public a new translation of Juvenal. After
the very spirited, although irregular, performance of Dryden and his coadjutors in the way of freer versions, and after the
uncommonly faithful and meritorious work of Mr.
Gifford, I am certainly called upon to say a few words in explanation of
my own plan; and to state in what particulars my judgment has, perhaps erroneously, led
me to believe that an improvement might be made upon the plan of my predecessors. That
it is possible I still think, but am far from fancying that the design is here carried
into execution.
After a few preliminary remarks upon the widely different construction of
the Latin and English languages, especially in what relates to their poetical idiom, he
goes on to say:—
It is a good fundamental maxim, that a translation should be a complete and accurate copy of the original;
that no addition or subtraction should be made; no image suppressed; no sentiment
altered; that the very turn of particular phrases, if possible, but at any rate the
style of thinking and expression, should be most faithfully preserved. There are three
sets of readers: those who are unacquainted with the Latin; those who have when young
read and enjoyed it, but have now an imperfect recollection; and those who will be at
the pains of comparing original and translated poems. Every translator must wish
(‘speret idem, sudet multum frustraque
laboret’) the first class to rise from the perusal with a tolerably
correct idea of the manner of the original; the second to have all their impressions
brought fully to their minds, and often the very passages; the third to be quite
astonished at finding that an imitation could be made at once so close and so spirited.
But let me ask, has this fancied excellence been ever attained? has not one of the two
contrary effects invariably prevailed? has not fidelity been sacrificed to
versification, or poetry been excluded by a servile adherence to correctness? Pope and Cowper,
in their respective translations of Homer,
sufficiently answer the questions. But surely one must say,
‘Mallem cum illo errare, quam cum hoc recte
sentire.’ An English poem in rhyme, whether translated or
original, will never please, unless the verse be flowing, sweet, and simple, varied
only by modifications of harmony, by dissimilar pauses, and a composed or hurried
rhythm. But how are we to reconcile the sudden turns, the strong points, and striking
contrasts of Juvenal with an equable, dignified, melodious
cadence? Must we not lean more to another peculiarity of his character, that sweeping
grandeur of declamation, that exalted style of poetical oratory, which are the chief
properties of this sonorous writer? The English language compels diffuseness; a literal
version is impossible; the Latin verse is nearly a fifth longer than our own; and the
very nature of rhyme, forbidding one line to run into another, often obliges us to
stretch phrases (for to contract them is seldom possible) very capriciously, for the
benefit of the couplet. Then come the great curses of Gothicism, crowds of auxiliary
verbs, and the the’s, my’s, thy’s, em’s, us’s; which make
our barbarous jargons, with their inharmonious monosyllables, bear the same resemblance
to the ancient languages that a modern-built church, dotted with windows, bears to the
graceful and commanding simplicity
of a Grecian temple supported by pillars. Ad summam. The uniform
imitation of language or style is, I hold, impossible; i.e. to
write well in English, a translator of Juvenal must be defective
in closeness of version, except where the author himself is easy and flowing in his
manner. This, I contend, he generally is; but to reconcile his occasional abruptness
with English rhyme (the only species of our verse which can give effect to satire) is,
it appears to me, a problem which can never be solved. The average of syllables in
Latin hexameters is perhaps about fifteen; as many as three dactyls usually occurring
in a verse.1 So that a person who attempted to translate Latin
hexameters line for line into English heroic poetry, would have five extra syllables to
cram into every verse; which particular difficulty would be no slight one, not to
mention the general conciseness of the Latin language (from the inflections of its
nouns and verbs and various others causes), compared with the ‘wild plenty’
of the English. But the critic will here say ‘Quorsum
hæc?’ Nobody expects a literal translation of a Latin poet. It
would be the attempt of a Procrustes; fitting long
and short alike to one inconvenient receptacle.
1Dryden
rates the number as less; Johnson rates
it as above.
Well, but it was the attempt of Barten
Holyday, that most learned of all the commentators upon
Juvenal. The consequence of
Holyday’s passion for literal translation was, that he
neither wrote sense nor poetry. As Dryden says,
Holyday obtained his pedantic end; namely, that of rendering
his original line for line. Yet although such a plan as that of
Holyday is evidently absurd, and both he, and the
comparatively smooth Stapylton,1 are obsolete as poetical translators of Juvenal, yet
at the same time there is an opposite extreme of too great freedom in translation, of
which, I own, I think Dryden and his associates have been guilty.
It is perhaps needless to mention that Dryden himself only
translated five out of the sixteen satires in the work that bears his name; which were
the first, third, sixth, tenth, and sixteenth. His assistants were numerous. . . .
Charles Dryden, the poet’s son,
himself a poet, rendered the seventh. He had very good abilities; but I think he
betrays
1Johnson
calls Stapylton smoother than Holyday. Take one of
Stapylton’s smooth lines:— ‘Overwrit O’ th’ sides, indorsed too, and not finish’d
yet.’ (Sat. i.) But Stapylton is, upon the whole, very smooth indeed
for the time in which he wrote. He is very nervous too; and, I am sorry to say,
Dryden owes many good lines to him,
which he has not acknowledged.
his father’s helping
hand. Harvey, who I really think is the best of
the band next to Dryden and Congreve, paraphrased the ninth very poetically. No one can doubt that
Congreve would do anything well which he undertook. The Eleventh Satire was fortunate enough to engage his attention.
His translation, faulty as it is in point of rhymes, surely does more than
‘deserve forgiveness’ as Johnson says of it. Mr. Power has done his utmost to annihilate every
shadow of merit in the twelfth. Creech chose the
thirteenth; and performed his task like himself, unequally, but upon the whole with
vigour. Johnson says, but he says it with a perhaps, ‘that
Creech is the only one of these translators who has not lost
sight of the dignity of Juvenal; although they all, more or less, have preserved his
point.’ This was a prudent ‘perhaps.’ John Dryden, jun. translated the Fourteenth Satire very creditably. But
I fancy I see the father here again. Children like tender osiers take the bow, And as they first are fashion’d always grow. I have given this general account of Dryden’s
coadjutors, because I did not think the real merit of some of them had ever been
sufficiently appreciated. They abound in beauties, although they have many faults.
Further on, Hodgson states what he
considers to have been the object of his original.
An object, which I consider a very noble one, namely, that of exposing
vice in its true colours and natural deformity.
With reference to his style he quotes Johnson.
Juvenal’s peculiarity is a mixture of
stateliness and gaiety, of pointed sentences and declamatory grandeur.
And Gifford.
When the dignity of Juvenal is
wanting, his wit will be imperfectly preserved. Wit, indeed, he possesses in an eminent
degree; but it is tinctured with his peculiarities: ‘Rarò jocos,
sæpius acerbos sales miscet.’1
Dignity is the predominant quality of his mind; he can and does relax with grace, but
he never forgets himself; he smiles indeed, but his smile is more terrible than his
frown, for it is never excited but when his indignation is mingled with contempt.
‘Ridet et odit.’
Mr. Gifford, in another part of his very
interesting essay on the Roman satirists, observes that there is a slovenliness in some
of Juvenal’s verses, for which he
1Lipsius.
has been justly blamed, as it would have cost
him so little pains to improve them. But, generally speaking (as Mr.
Gifford, by the slight exception he has made, I suppose allows), the
poetry of Juvenal has a remarkably equable and harmonious flow. To
my ears, I confess, there is hardly among the Latin poets one whose versification
sounds more musically, or seems to have run with less labour from the author. Surely,
then, such a writer should appear in English with as few discontinued and broken lines
as possible. Indeed, however allowable these interruptions may be in Latin hexameters,
in English rhymes they certainly are not, when the disjointed verse recurs frequently.
This may be a natural defect in the constitution of rhyme, but so it is. Pope’s regular couplets, in which one complete
part, at least, of the sense of a passage is almost always expressed, have been
censured; but are Dryden’s verses so
uniformly good when considered as couplets? and whom besides
Dryden, as a writer of rhyme, shall we venture to oppose to
Pope? In the general effect of harmony, indeed,
Dryden is much superior. But of that elsewhere. Goldsmith has been singularly accurate in the
terminations of his verses. They are almost without exception perfectly symphonious.
Johnson, too, had a very correct ear. But
they wrote little in verse compared to Pope.
And I question whether the English language (with all its unpruned luxuriance) affords
a sufficient variety of teleutic music to prevent the occasional recurrence of a faulty
rhyme in long compositions. Spenser has done
wonders in this way as well as in all others. Milton’s contempt for rhyme is well known. When
Dryden called upon him one day to ask his permission to
introduce some of his ‘Paradise
Lost’ into a piece (in rhyme) which Dryden was
preparing for the theatre, ‘Aye,’ said the old bard, ‘you may tag
my verses if you will.’
With reference to the coarseness of many passages, the translator expresses
his belief that the aim of Juvenal in writing so grossly
was to lay open the native unsightliness of vice, to remove that fascinating cloak which
hides its horrors, and thereby to render it an object too disgusting to be publicly
espoused, a guest too dangerous to be privately admitted. The poet labours to awaken the
conscience, and to put the prosperous villain to the blush by a daringly faithful picture
of the corruptions of his country.
After a further exposition of the plan of his poem, and a grateful
recognition of the great and unexpected patronage accorded to it, Hodgson pro-ceeds to the Prologue, in which, after
tracing the rise and growth of satire, and drawing a pointed comparison between Juvenal and other satirists, he declares that if, by referring
the picture of Rome’s depravity to the immorality then prevalent in England, he could
ensure the reformation of one of his countrymen, the labours of his youthful muse would be
amply rewarded.
Among the contemporary critiques of the translation, the most deserving of
notice is that of the ‘Edinburgh
Review,’ which had been inaugurated a few years before, under the auspices
of Sydney Smith, Horner, Brougham, and last, but not
least, that ‘literary anthropophagus,’ Jeffrey. That Hodgson’s
talents as a scholar and a poet were now pretty generally appreciated is evident, not only
from the many distinguished names which are found among the list of subscribers to his
Juvenal, but also from the fact
that ‘the young gentlemen’ of ‘the
Edinburgh’ condescended to consider it worthy of their censorship, and
bestowed upon it their accustomed meed of praise and blame; the latter, as was usual with
this periodical in the early years of its existence, greatly exceeding the former in
emphasis. The critique commences with a studied attempt to depreciate the genius of
Juvenal himself, and, after a sufficiently
shallow criticism of his character and style, proceeds, with youthful wisdom, to lay down
the law upon the subject of translations in general and translators in particular. Having
expressed a preference for Johnson’s
imitations to any translation of Juvenal, however spirited or
accurate, the review proceeds, after passing allusions to Holyday, Stapylton, and Dryden, to a comparison between the works of Gifford and Hodgson. Upon both is bestowed an almost equal share of censure and
approbation.
Hodgson’s extraordinary facility for
versifying was, doubtless, a snare to him, and led him sometimes into unnecessary
diffuseness. His easy, well-turned couplets are unfavourably criticised, and the occasional
roughnesses of Mr. Gifford’s
translation are by the ‘Edinburgh’ considered to be more in the style of Juvenal, and therefore preferable to ‘the unbending stateliness of
Mr. Hodgson’s versification.’ The fact was, that the
translator thought the Latin and English languages so intrinsically different in structure
as to render a close imitation of style as impracticable as it was undesirable.
The translator is also found guilty on a charge of giving too frequent
expression to his own originality of thought. But this fault is partly condoned.
The sin that most easily besets a translator is that of grafting his own sense on that of his
original, and the temptation is the stronger the more he is a man of talent and
imagination. Mr. Hodgson transgresses in this
respect oftener than his predecessor, but it is a liberty which, if used sparingly and
neatly, we are not much disposed to censure, Juvenal
not being, in our eyes, so perfect a poet that nothing can be added or taken away
without injury. Instances which do no discredit to the original occur in Sat. xiv. 187, &c.
The ‘Review’ continues its comparison by noticing that the two translations are
very seldom at variance in the meaning of Juvenal, and
in one or two of the few passages when there is a difference, is ‘disposed to agree
with Mr. Hodgson,’ who, in the lines which
conclude the Fourth Satire, is pronounced to have surpassed all
his predecessors.
The Eleventh and Fourteenth Satires are selected as the best in the
translation, partly from their intrinsic excellence, and partly from superiority of
execution. The Eighth and Tenth Satires would, the ‘Review’ thinks, have been better translated by
Mr. Hodgson than by the friends (Merivale and Drury)
to whom he assigned them; and it goes on to admit that he has great powers of easy and
elegant versi-fication, but thinks that he has directed his intellectual
labours to a department that was already overstocked, and, although denying the right to
interfere with any man in the application he chooses to make of his talents, yet expresses
a regret that Mr. Hodgson’s had not been directed to a less
hackneyed subject.
Many others might have been found more interesting to the world, and
better suited to his own powers. The charm of his versification is chiefly perceptible
in the descriptive parts, where the poet dwells on natural scenery, or the primitive
simplicity of ancient manners. Hence the superiority we ascribed to the Eleventh Satire, and the pleasure we derive from such lines as
the following:— And Auster, resting in his silent cave, Shakes from his wing the moisture of the wave.
Now, there are several poets of antiquity that would have opened a
wider field for the display of this peculiar excellence of our author; a field where he
would have been less elbowed and jostled by competitors. From the works of Statius, of whom he speaks more than once in the highest
terms, and to whose merits no English translation has yet done full justice; and of
Ovid, whom he denominates ‘the most
beautiful of all descriptive poets,’ Mr. Hodg-son, we are confident, could make a selection that
would delight a much more extended circle of readers than he can expect to peruse the
present volume. Our confidence is grounded on some exquisite morsels he has given in
the notes, as well from the poets above mentioned, as from Catullus, Claudian, Martial, &c. As we look upon these translations to be
not the least valuable part of the book, we shall subjoin one or two. The beautiful
address to Sleep, in the ‘Sylvæ’ of Statius (v. 4), which is
translated at page 460, commences thus:— How have I wrong’d thee, Sleep, thou gentlest power Of heav’n! that I alone, at night’s dread hour, Still from thy soft embraces am repress’d, Nor drink oblivion on thy balmy breast? Now every field and every flock is thine, And seeming slumbers bend the mountain pine; Hush’d is the tempest’s howl, the torrent’s roar, And the smooth wave lies pillow’d on the shore. A humorous description of a parasite from Martial follows,
and then that fine passage in Lucretius (v. 1217).
The Review closes with a scathing criticism of the notes, which it condemns
in the most indiscriminate manner as most unnecessarily diffuse and disconnected. It must
be admitted that censure on this point was to a certain degree justifiable. Hodgson’s reading had been very extensive, and his memory was marvellously
retentive. To this latter quality Byron bears testimony,
in that passage of his journal where he refutes the assertions of his mother, Madame de
Stael, and the ‘Edinburgh,’ that
his character bore a resemblance to that of Rousseau: ‘He (Rousseau) had a bad memory; I
had, at least, an excellent one (ask Hodgson, the poet—a
good judge, for he has an astonishing one).’ This enviable faculty betrayed
its possessor into excessive copiousness of illustration, but not to such an extent as to
justify the unmitigated censure bestowed upon it with the utmost virulence by the
‘Scotch Review.’
Hodgson at twenty-seven was not a man to rest tamely under an
attack which he felt to be unduly harsh. The depreciation of the great Satirist himself,
and the slighting allusion to his friends and coadjutors, combined to excite his utmost
indignation; and he immediately replied to the ‘Review’ in a spirited satire, written in the same vigorous style which, a
year later, astonished the literary world in the ‘English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.’ His old and
warm-hearted friend, William Gifford, had published
an edition of Massinger, which had
been ‘damned with faint praise’ in the same number of the ‘Edinburgh’ as that which contained the above-mentioned
critique. Byron, whose
acquaintance he had lately made, and for whose genius he had, from the first, entertained
the warmest admiration, had been cruelly maltreated in his first attempt. The criticisms of
several other periodicals were equally ill-judging and unjust. Hodgson
felt irresistibly impelled to write, and
he wrote, perhaps with more justice than discretion, as far at least as his own literary
reputation was concerned.
The satirist begins by apostrophising the whole chorus of
‘irresponsible, indolent reviewers’ who pass hasty judgments upon youthful
talent. But chiefly those anonymously wise, Who skulk in darkness from Detection’s eyes, And high on Learning’s chair affect to sit, The self-raised arbiters of sense and wit. And having illustrated his statements by several recent instances which are introduced
with mingled humour and severity, he proceeds to give an allegorical description of the
birth, growth, and decline of the Writer’s art, founded partly on the account of the
Birth of Criticism in the ‘Rambler,’
partly on Fielding’s essay on the same
subject. The concluding lines are devoted to that magazine which Byron denominates My Grandmother’s Review, the ‘British,’ and a certain book called the
‘Eclectic Review,’ of the
existence of which the satirist informs his readers that he has heard
on very credible authority, although he has never had the privilege of reading it. But as
he is told that it speaks charitably of his Juvenal as a whole, and believes that its censure, if known, would rather
increase than diminish his reputation, he is not disposed to resent its well-meant attempts
at discriminating criticism.
CHAPTER IV. EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS—LETTERS FROM WILLIAM GIFFORD AND DR.
IRELAND—TUTORSHIP AT KING’S. 1807-8.
The Reviews which challenged the satire to which reference is
made in the last chapter were, as there mentioned, the ‘Edinburgh,’ the ‘British,’ and the ‘Eclectic.’ There were others which spoke of the
translation in terms of the most enthusiastic praise, tempered only by fair criticism. The
‘Monthly,’ while echoing the
‘Edinburgh’s’ censure of the diffuseness of
the notes, bore ample testimony to the vigour and the spirit of the translation and to the
beauty of its poetry. The ‘Critical’ was still more eulogistic, and this Review was distinguished for
discriminating taste. In a note in Moore’s
‘Life of Byron’ allusion
is made to its critique on the ‘Hours of Idleness,’ written in September 1807.
This Review, in pronouncing upon the
young author’s future career, showed itself more prophet-like
than the great oracle of the North. In noticing the elegy on Newstead Abbey, the writer says: ‘We could not but hail with
something of prophetic rapture the hope conveyed in the closing stanza— Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, Thee to irradiate with meridian ray.
Of Hodgson’s
Juvenal it writes in a similar strain. It begins by expressing satisfaction at
the intellectual vigour of the age which had produced Hodgson’s
Juvenal before Gifford’s was properly digested. By way of combating the assertion that
another translation was unnecessary, it mentions the circumstance that Pope’sHomer
appeared before Creech’s was fairly finished.
The ‘Critical’ continues with a
comparison of Hodgson and Gifford.
The lists have been cleared of all the combatants of inferior note, and
are exclusively occupied by two distinguished cavaliers; one founded from experience
and reputation in a long established fame; the other rejoicing in great though hitherto
untried powers, vigorous in youth, and inflamed with the noble confidence of future
glory. What must inspire every generous spectator with some degree of prejudice in
favour of the young adven-turer, and with the hope, at least, that he may not encounter an ignominious defeat,
is the courtesy displayed by him towards his veteran adversary, whom he treats with
uncommon respect and deference, and whom he loads with the most profuse and liberal
praise.
After a detailed description of the style and method of the rival
translators, the ‘Critical’ sums up
its comparison by saying:—
Mr. Gifford has made a very intelligible and
entertaining work; Mr. Hodgson has enriched the
language of his native country by some of the noblest poetry to be found in it.
It then proceeds to particular criticisms.
In the terrible Sixth SatireMr. Hodgson’s powers appear both original and
splendid, even when contrasted with one or two most signal triumphs achieved by the
genius of Dryden. Even the description of
Messalina, the most finished and most spirited
morceau that can perhaps be found in
the whole translated works of that mighty master, appears to us to be rivalled by the
same passage as it is represented in the volume before us. If our classical readers
will compare these wonderful bursts of poetic fire, we are
persuaded that they will, at least, think it doubtful to which the preference ought to
be justly awarded.
A quotation from the Sixth Satire follows, and the
Review remarks upon it: ‘Can anything exceed the boldness, the spirit, the dramatic
effect of this domestic scene?’ Another quotation from Satire
xii. 101. elicits a just tribute to Hodgson’s talents for tender and interesting poetry, and picturesque
description of natural objects.
This beautiful picture reminds one of all that is soft and fresh and
brilliant in the loveliest sea-pieces of Claude,
whose delicate and alluring style has been less frequently attempted by the strong hand
of Juvenal than the coarser taste which suggested a copy of vulgar but striking objects
to the faithful pencil of Teniers. The Third Satire proves Mr.
Hodgson to possess much of the skill, humour, and correctness that
distinguish the Flemish artists.1
The sea-piece, which suggested a comparison with Claude’s painting may certainly be considered more picturesque than
its original; only those who have witnessed such a scene on the Italian coast can fully
appreciate its simple grace and fidelity.
1Sat. xii. 69-82.
The ‘Critical’
concludes by drawing attention to Hodgson’s
extraordinary talent for satire, declaring its sense of the duty of giving honour to whom
honour is due, not only in justice to the author himself, but to the public, whose judgment
was in danger of being misdirected by that class of critics who made it their constant
practice to pass indiscriminate censure upon young aspirants to literary fame, thereby too
often suppressing further endeavours. Of Mr. Hodgson the Review
thought it bare justice to declare that he had displayed all the essential qualities of a
poet to be found in a translation, and added a hope that there might soon be an opportunity
of appreciating his claims to the higher praise of invention and original composition.
Having already stated that it thought him peculiarly gifted with poetical talents, the
Review is satisfied that he cannot be at a loss for proper objects on which to employ them
while our Tartuffes are daily
assuming a thousand disguises, and while cold-blooded metaphysicians pretend to
regulate the public taste in regard to Poetry and the Belles Lettres.
This complimentary critique was soon afterwards endorsed by Lord Byron. In one of the last stanzas of ‘English Bards’ he apostrophises his Alma
Mater— whom he elsewhere terms a harsh beldam—in four
forcible lines. Oh, dark asylum of a Vandal race! At once the boast of learning and disgrace! So lost to Phœbus that not Hodgson’s verse Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson’s worse. And in his note on the words ‘Hodgson’s verse,’ the noble poet writes:—
This gentleman’s name requires no praise: the man who in
translation displays unquestionable genius, may be well expected to excel in original
composition, of which, it is to be hoped, we shall soon see a splendid specimen.
Two letters from Gifford, one written
before, and the other after, the publication of the rival translations, are interesting,
not only from their intrinsic excellence and from the value which must naturally belong to
any composition from the pen of so eminent a man, but from the insight which they give into
the literary sentiments of the great writer and critic, and the evidence which they afford
of his generous sympathy with the youthful competitor for fame in the same field of
literature in which he himself had so long been engaged. The first of these letters is
addressed to Mr. Henry Drury at Harrow in 1806.
My dear Sir,—I ought to have written long since, but I
may say to you in confidence what the beggar said to Louis XIV.: ‘O sir, if you did but know how idle I am,
you would pity me!’
I am delighted with your good opinion of Massinger.1 I
take refuge in our old plays, from the execrable trash of the present stage;
and should, in my plodding way, have no objection to revise the twin-writers of
whom you speak, who abound in beauties of every description: but I am not rich
enough to do it at my own expense, and the booksellers engage with reluctance
in whatever does not promise an immediate sale. Peter Whalley, who edited Ben
Jonson, amassed, before his last illness, a world of lumber
preparatory to a second edition. In his hands it must have grown to fourteen
volumes at least, for he had unfortunately discovered with what ease a book
might be swelled out by parallel passages. This has been put into my hands. His
collections, I find, have been plundered by Steevens and Malone, who
wisely kept their secret—to me they are useless: yet I am not certain, if
my sight does not totally fail me, but that I may be tempted to reprint the
original with the additions of scenery, &c., some-
1Gifford was then engaged in editing the dramas of
Massinger.
what in the manner of Massinger, to facilitate the understanding of him, which now
requires more attention than the general reader can or will bestow.
Juvenal drags heavily. At one time, all
Bulwer’s devils, arrant, passant, couchant, and
rampant, are at my heels, roaring for copy; at another I cannot get sight of
them; and if I make inquiries—why they are gone for twelve days to get
drunk with the blameless Ethiopians. So we proceed. I take it for granted that
Mr. Hodgson is not more fortunate.
In this edition, I have added a little, and but a little, to the notes, and
attempted here and there to squeeze the text a little together. I have no idea
of improving it, unless, as Sir J.
Cutler’s maid—absit invidia—improved his
stockings. I want a poetical friend, for the gods have not made the Dr.1 poetical, and most of my other acquaintance are over
ears in politicks (sic).
I have scarcely been out of doors since I wrote last. You
would therefore have found me in my elbow chair, and I should have been truly
proud and happy to have seen you. I am now meditating a south sea voyage to
Newmarket for a fortnight or three weeks, as I have some reliance on a change
1Dean
Ireland.
‘Pray make me happy,’
as Scindiah says, ‘by your letters.’
Ever, my dear Sir, most sincerely yours, Wm. Gifford.
The second letter, addressed to Hodgson himself, gives pleasing proof of the generosity and true nobility
of mind of one of nature’s gentlemen.
James Street: Monday Night.
Though the Dr. and I
had respectively ordered Juvenal to be sent to us the moment it appeared, yet your active
kindness has, with me, anticipated the plodding industry of the bookseller. I
accept your present with the sincerest pleasure and shall ever regard it among
my choicest possessions.
I fell on it immediately, and, without removing my eye for an
instant from the page, read, shall I say devoured? the six first
satires—more I could not do—nor do I expect to be able to
distinguish an ‘a’ from a ‘b’ for the next twenty-four
hours.
In simplicity and truth I am delighted with you; for the
haste and imperfection of which you speak, I see nothing but freedom, spirit,
and vigour: your anxiety I place to the score of modesty; it is surely not
necessary, but I do not condemn it. Would you could impart
a little of it, where it is really needed! ‘But fools rush in,’ you
know. Expect to hear nothing of the Introduction and Notes, for I have not read
a syllable of them yet.
I am amazed at the facility (to say nothing of the elegance)
with which you compose; though Ireland,
who regards you with great affection, had, in some measure, prepared me for it.
Your morning’s amusement would occupy me seriously for a week—and
Jove only knows what it would be after
all. And have you the conscience, with all this ease and spirit and learning
and extensive reading, to call upon me to improve your trial? pro
pudor!
No, no; you must look upon me as an old post-horse: what with
switching and spurring I might perhaps perform a short stage; but should be
mighty stiff after it, and not in a travelling condition for some time. Do you
recollect that I once said ‘mox in reluct:’
&c. I had then no bad idea, and, as I thought, not unproductive of useful
fun. It was a work on the plan of ‘Le chef-d’œuvre d’un
Inconnu,’ that genuine piece of French humour. I had written
the life of my ‘Hero,’ containing, with great pomposity, not one
accident that does not happen to every clown every day of his life; I had also composed a
poem—oh such a poem! I do not think ‘Jack
Horner’ came within a league of it; and amassed a vast
quantity of illustrations ‘after the manner’ of all sorts of
people, to render every clear point incomprehensible; and many other pretty
things. When I had done all this, ‘an exposition of
idleness,’ as Bottom
says—not your friend Flatbottom
Urgius whose various reading is very good—but an
‘exposition of idleness’ came upon me, and before I recovered my
activity, a storm or robbery, call it which you will, ‘shook down my
mellow hangings.’ To secure my precious arcana I wisely put them within
an old chessboard, taking care to secure them with a string that, like Styx,
went nine times round it. ‘If you have tears, prepare to shed them
now.’ In changing houses, this casket, to which that of Alexander was but a tin canister, was conveyed
out of the cart that bore the curta supellex. I consoled
myself in my distress by reflecting on the disappointment of the miserable
thief of a rascal when he opened his purchase. But why do I tell you this cock
and bull story? Firstly, that you may take up my design—you have fifty
times more talents for it than I had in my best days; and surely the harvest is
richer than ever—et quando uberior?—O what giggling might you have at the Germans! to say nothing of
the home produce.
My valued friends in Gower Street told me of your removal to
Cambridge: on this I felicitate you, and, let me add, the world, most
sincerely; for you will certainly have more time at command. I thank you for
your congratulations; presuming that you allude to the lottery. Nothing is yet
settled, but I believe some good is en train. Down on your knees and be
thankful that you see land at last. The watchman is now bellowing just two
o’clock. With the sincerest esteem,
I remain your obliged and faithful friend, Wm. Gifford.
The removal to Cambridge, to which allusion is made in this letter, refers
to Hodgson’s appointment to a Resident
Tutorship at King’s College of which he had already for five years been a fellow.
Humphrey Sumner, the then Provost, had asked him
to lecture upon Locke and Pearson. Hodgson replied in the
following letter, in which he sketches in outline some of the views with which he entered
upon his new sphere of work.
Eton: October 1, 1807.
Dear Sir,—I am greatly obliged by your keeping the
tutorship open for me so long; and lament the necessity of my absence from Cambridge till
Christmas.
Concerning the subject of my lectures I am very glad to have
the opportunity of some communication with you. The books you mention
(Locke and Pearson) are as yet by no means among my
intimate acquaintance; but I will take the liberty of offering my general ideas
of their character to your consideration. Upon Butler, I believe, we are agreed, that his ‘Analogy’ is too
profound a work for any but the severest student to comprehend. At the lectures
by Mr. Lloyd which I attended at
Cambridge, I gathered that there was much in Locke controverted by subsequent reasoners; but I did not
perceive that anything had been added to the explanation and argument of
Pearson for a succession of years. Of the effect which
Mr. Lloyd’s lectures had upon his hearers, as
all were at the same college with myself, I can form some opinion. It is an
assured truth that not one pupil out of a dozen gained anything from the
Locke lecture when I was at college. But Mr.
Lloyd has made Locke the study of his life.
If then, with his excellent understanding and long application, he could not
render the lecture interesting or useful, how is another person to do it? It is
my belief that in the ‘Essay on the Human Understanding’
Mr. Locke is often bewildered in the subtlety of his
own reasoning. Nothing is so dark as metaphysical speculation, and nothing,
therefore, requires so plain a light to be thrown upon it. That Mr.
Locke’s manner is popular, or likely to catch the
attention of young men, I cannot allow. It is very different with
Pearson. His reasoning is clear, intelligible, and
convincing. I do not, then, despair of being able ‘to tell the tale as
’tis told me,’ which is the chief thing required in a lecture
extracted from Pearson; but I do despair of forcibly
recommending the fine-spun lucubrations of Mr. Locke to
the attention of my pupils.
I have written this letter very hastily, in the midst of
uncongenial employment, and of hard additional labour at my publication. You
will therefore, I trust, excuse any misstatement of opinion expressed upon the
moment, though not formed without previous consideration. The fact is, that
ever since your kind promise of appointing me to the tutorship, I have found my
thoughts naturally engaged in my few leisure hours with the business of my
future work. And I will request your permission to enter a little further into
the result of my reflections. Young men are but three years at King’s, and any very
accurate knowledge of a philosophical work cannot be communicated to them by an
hour’s explanation every day in the half terms. That the generality of
young men will take much trouble to prepare themselves for lectures is not to
be expected. A few will really examine their work beforehand; a few more will
just run it over; but the greater part will not look at it till the moment.
Still they may learn something, they may all learn something, if the subject is
interesting, and if their instructor adapts his manner to their prejudices and
their turn of thought. But I contend that a metaphysical subject is not
generally interesting, although a religious subject is more so than any other;
and, as to manner, the young are all impatient of delay. If a lecturer is slow,
they conceive that he is stupid, and then the business is done. Now, I question
whether any but the most superf1cial knowledge of Locke could be imparted without a very cautious slowness of
interpretation. . . .
Since I left college my reading has been very miscellaneous.
It has chiefly been devoted to Greek and Latin authors, but has diverged a good
deal into French and English literature. Lectures upon the Belles Lettres, in
short, have been my principal study. I do not pretend to
any deep knowledge here; neither my age nor my other engagements can have
allowed much proficiency. But, having read Rollin and Blair when a
boy, a third set of lectures upon the same subject was put into my hands some
years since by a lecturer of the name of Barron. He has not, I think, supplied many of the deficiencies
of his predecessors, although in his essay on Logic he has, I think, done more
than they had attempted. What I fancied worth remembering in my own reading I
always noted down, and when I was requested, not long since, to give a
collected opinion of these writers, I interwove my own observations with
extracts and opinions from their works. This employment, and the translation of
Juvenal, have, with other occasional
exertions of the same kind, filled my time since I left college; and I mention
these circumstances to introduce a proposal which, had I not waited for some
previous intimation from you upon the subject, I should have submitted to your
consideration a month ago. Suppose a lecture upon Belles Lettres—a
general account of the sages, historians, orators, and poets of Greece and
Rome. For instance, Demosthenes; the
character of his age, the state of Greece, and of Athens particularly, when he
flourished; the
history and effect of his orations; a comparison between his style and that of
other orators. Or, to make the lecture more general, it might embrace a
connected account of all the principal Greek and Roman writers, the examination
of their style, with extracts from their works; and a general comparison of
ancient and modern literature might be made both pleasant and useful. Quinctilian, Longinus, Diogenes
Laertius, Macrobius, would
open their stores to me, nor have I mentioned the treasure of treasures,
Aristotle. Surely one could blend a
spell from them all enough to attract the Old Court.
I request your indulgence for this imperfect exposition of a
plan of lectures; but, as I look forward to Cambridge as my residence for many
years, and enter upon that residence under your auspices (quod spiro
et placeo, si placeo, tuum est), I think it right to make you as
much acquainted as I am with my views and inclinations before entering upon my
employment.
Whether so extraordinary a development of the customary curriculum at
King’s was allowed is doubtful. But there can be no doubt that, in Hodgson’s hands, it would have been universally
admitted to be a most refreshing novelty. All changes in those days
were looked upon with suspicion. The provost, Humphrey
Sumner, was a person of staid conservative principles. His naturally
ponderous manner and disposition were still further retarded by deafness; an infirmity of
which it is sad to reflect that Ben Drury, the Eton
master, should ever have taken advantage, to the infinite amusement of those present, by
making most uncomplimentary observations to him in the manner of a person conversing upon
some ordinary topic—observations which were invariably received with the blandest
courtesy.
Notwithstanding Hodgson’s diffidence in the
matter of the Locke lecture, the Provost persisted
in his request, and Hodgson, accordingly, at once applied himself to
the study of metaphysics. Some of his written lectures which remain prove him to have
thoroughly mastered his subject, and to have presented it to his pupils in so pleasant and
attractive a form as must have met with ample appreciation from undergraduate
understandings. But, not content with these masterly expositions, his poetical mind, as
usual, had recourse to verses for a fuller expression of those deep imaginings which his
metaphysical research had naturally suggested to it, and in the ‘Ballad on Metaphysics,’ written at this time, he
gives an epitome of the whole
subject, inclusive of the systems of Aristotle,
Descartes, Locke, and
Reid; contriving to invest even abstract
reasoning with poetical harmony, and concluding with some lines of great power and beauty
on the legitimate end and consummation of all human studies—the adoration of the
Deity.
As in a measure appropriate to the subject of metaphysics, some letters by
the Rev. John Ireland, then prebendary, afterwards
the distinguished Dean of Westminster, may here be given. His early acquaintance with
Hodgson has already been noticed, and the high
opinion which he had formed of his character and abilities is plainly proved by the tone of
these letters.
In a note to the Second Satire of JuvenalHodgson had written with reference to the accusations sometimes
brought against his original that he ridiculed the idea of a future state.
Did not Socrates in his dying hours use
the common language of his countrymen with regard to the gods, and yet we cannot suppose
him to have intended more than an example of conformity to established usage when he
enjoined the sacrifice of a cock to Esculapius;
although we know he believed in an all-wise and all-powerful Creator and Supporter of the Universe.
Hodgson’s naturally reverent mind and early
religious training here, no doubt, betrayed him into the use of an expression similar to
those commonly current among Churchmen. He probably did not mean to say more than that
Socrates believed in the Supreme Governor of the
universe, which in its state of order owed Him alone its existence; and did not intend to
enter at all into the question of ancient beliefs in pre-existent matter. With this point
of view, as far as it goes, the Scriptural doctrine is not materially at variance, when it
distinctly asserts that the Creator brought Cosmos out of Chaos.
But the erudite Dr. Ireland, the
author of ‘Five Discourses containing
certain Arguments for and against the Reception of Christianity by the ancient Jews and
Greeks,’ of ‘Paganism
and Christianity compared,’ and many other profound theological
dissertations, was not likely to rest satisfied with any mode of expression in the
annotation of a classical work which could possibly admit of misinterpretation on such a
point. He accordingly wrote in the following strain, which if hypercritical must be
considered to have been not the less complimentary to a man who was twenty years younger
than himself:—
Croydon: January 11, 1808.
Dear Sir,—I have begun to read your Juvenal; and you will judge from what I am
about to say, how strong is my remembrance of the esteem which I felt for you
several years ago, when my intercourse with you and your family was nearer than
it is at present.
In one of the notes to the Second
Satire, it is said, in vindication of the character of Socrates, that he believed in an all-powerful
Creator of the universe. I am persuaded, from the general complexion of the
assertion, that you cannot have made a regular inquiry into this part of the
Pagan theology. I am persuaded, too, that, if you had, your mind would have
arrived at the same conviction which I feel. It has happened that, for a
theological purpose, I have looked with some attention into this point; and of
nothing am I more firmly convinced, than that in no Pagan school was ever
taught the doctrine of a proper creation. It happens, too, that, at this very
time, I am engaged in impressing this religious caution upon the King’s
scholars at Westminster, to whom I read term lectures. It is highly probable
that your translation may fall into the hands of such youths; and I should be
extremely unwilling to hear that their belief in an
essential and peculiar doctrine of Revelation was likely to be unsettled by any
contrary observation of yours. If when you did me the honour of calling here, I
had been aware of this circumstance I should have taken the liberty of a
friend, and requested that you would have placed the passage in question at my
disposal. However, all this depends on the confidence which you might have in
my research or my judgment. The best thing to be done is to look into this
important point yourself before another edition of your book is called for. If
I should be so fortunate as to meet with you before that time comes, perhaps I
might be able to prove my assertion even by conversation.
I have troubled you with a long letter; but I believe that I
know your heart, and that you will take what I have said as a private mark of
friendship.
I beg you to believe me, dear Sir, Yours very truly, J. Ireland.
No. 1 Fludyer Street: March 28, 1808.
Dear Sir,—Your letter has found me here, being engaged
in the duties of my residence, and re-moved from the books which would have
afforded me the evidence proper for the point between us. As it is, I have only
the opportunity of saying that in the conclusion of your letter you have seized
the word, under which lay the whole force of my observation. I had talked to
you of the ignorance of the Pagan schools in the doctrine of a proper creation.
By this I meant, that in all the ancient cosmology which has descended to us,
the only doctrine taught is that of the form impressed upon bodies, or the
extraction of bodies from pre-existing matter; and that the primary matter, or
ύλή, is always supposed beforehand. The more you examine the
ancient evidence with this view, the more persuaded you will be that all these
passages, in which there is an appearance of creation, are to be popularly
interpreted, and that as the early Church teaches us through Eusebius, ‘It was peculiar to the Hebrew
doctrines to consider the God over all, the one maker of all things, and of
the substance which underlies bodies, which the Greeks denominate
matter.’ I cannot refer to the place, for I have not my
Eusebius with me, but am sure of the passage. I know
that several of the fathers talked of a creation, as really inculcated by the
Pagan writers; but I know that this untenable notion was
advanced by them with no other view than to win the later Greeks to the Gospel
through an approximation of the former Grecian writings to the Scriptures. This
was one of those injudicious accommodations of which the fathers were often
guilty, upon motives of mere Christian zeal. And you may be persuaded of the
futility of this doctrine, when you consider that the fathers have adduced
numbers of their proofs from the poets and play-writers—Sophocles, Menander, Philemon, &c.
In short, I will only beg you to read a short, but perfectly convincing
treatise on this subject. I mean that of Mosheim, ‘De Creatione Mundi ex
nihilo;’ you will find it among his ‘opuscula,’ or
in his edition of Cudworth’s
‘Intellectual
System,’ which indeed ought never to be read without it.
And now I must bid you farewell, for a thousand things press
upon me. I have given your kind remembrance to Gifford, who is but just recovered from a fever which gave me,
for a day or two, some uneasiness about him.
Hodgson’s Juvenal was dedicated
to his father’s old friend and patron Lord
Liverpool, whose gratifying acknowledgment of the dedication may fitly
conclude the present chapter.
Hertford Street: Dec. 23, 1807
Dear Sir,—I received the evening before last the
present you sent me of your translation of Juvenal. I have hitherto had time only to peruse the
Preface: it is replete with good erudition, and with many sagacious remarks. I
have no doubt that this work will do you great credit, and that I shall also
derive some credit from your having done me the honour of dedicating it to me.
I am, with great truth, Your faithful, humble servant, Liverpool. F. Hodgson, Esq.
CHAPTER V. COMMENCEMENT OF FRIENDSHIP WITH LONSDALE AND
LORD BYRON—NOTES OF THE LATTER ON
POPE—HIS RELIGIOUS IMPRESSIONS—LETTERS FROM
BYRON AND GIFFORD—INSTITUTION OF THE
‘QUARTERLY’—PUBLIC
ORATORSHIP—POLITICAL ALLUSIONS—LINES TO LONSDALE. 1808-9.
Early in 1808 Hodgson
commenced his residence at Cambridge as a fellow and tutor of King’s College. This
residence continued until his marriage in 1814, and, during this period, besides his duties
and studies at the university itself, he went each year to Rugby as classical examiner,
passed many of his vacations in London, and was continually engaged in literary pursuits;
constantly contributing to the ‘Critical’ and ‘Monthly’ Reviews, of which last periodical he was for some time an editor,
and publishing several volumes of poetry.
It was at this time that two young men of remarkable talent were added to the
number of his intimate friends, to each of whom Hodgson felt himself
to be placed more or less in the position of Mentor. One of them was John Lonsdale, afterwards a rival candidate for the
provostship of Eton, and Bishop of Lichfield. The other was that brilliant, wayward young
poet who was destined to add undying lustre to the literature of his country, and to
achieve for himself an endless fame.
The intimacy with Lord Byron, now firmly
cemented, had doubtless been formed previously during Hodgson’s visits to London and Cambridge and to the
Drurys at Harrow. The tone of the first remaining letters denotes
a degree of friendship which must evidently have existed for some time before they were
written. But it is equally evident that the two could not have been much thrown together
without becoming intimate. There were many points of resemblance in their characters, and
enough of difference to produce harmony. An early familiarity with and earnest admiration
for the inspired writings of the Bible, and especially of the Psalms, a love of history, of
philosophy and, above all, of poetry, were common to both, and were enough in themselves to
provide endless subjects of mutual interest for discus-sion. Add to this
that both were high-spirited and warm-hearted, genial and animated in society, but equally
subject to periods of melancholy and depression when alone, and it is easy to understand
the cordial affection and regard which they mutually entertained for one another throughout
the period of their friendship; a friendship which continued unimpaired until
Byron’s final departure from England caused the partial
severance of every social tie. Even then they occasionally corresponded, and there was no
diminution in their mutual feelings of regard up to the time of the premature death in
1824.
In March 1808 Byron came to Cambridge for
the purpose of availing himself of his privilege as a nobleman and taking his M.A. degree,
although he had only matriculated in 1805. From this time, until early in 1816, the friends
constantly met, and, when absent, as constantly corresponded. On this occasion of meeting
there was one especial circumstance which doubtless greatly contributed to mutual sympathy.
Both had been recently subjected to the fiery ordeal of criticism in the ‘Edinburgh Review.’ Hodgson, as we have seen, had already answered his critics
in a satire of no ordinary spirit and
power. Byron’s still more caustic and comprehensive reply was
now in process of concoction. Much must have passed between them upon this subject, and manifold must
have been the notes which were compared, many and various the living poets whose relative
merits and demerits must have been discussed.
Their early tastes in poetry were, moreover, much alike. Both were zealous
disciples of Dryden, both entertained the deepest
reverence for the genius of Pope. Hodgson’s allegiance to the muse of
Dryden was founded upon admiration for the intensity of its power
and vigour, while Byron’s veneration for
Pope’s style amounted almost to idolatry, and he strove to
emulate with slavish exactness that correctness of form which distinguished the ‘Bard
of the Thames.’ But in spite of what he conceived to be his better judgment, his
native force and genius quickly carried him beyond the limits thus assigned, and, although
in theory he ever remained loyal to his early faith, in practice he was more revolutionary
than most of his predecessors and contemporaries, and soon created a style which was
essentially his own.
Some fragmentary opinions which Byron
jotted down as they occurred to him at this time, although wholly without method or
connection, may be found interesting if inserted here.
In Ruffhead’s ‘Life of Pope,’ a book bearing the
autograph inscription ‘Byron—Cambridge, A.D., 1808,’
which afterwards passed into Hodgson’s possession, there are a few short pointed notes in
Byron’s handwriting, the first of which,
written hastily on a fly-leaf at the beginning, are evidently intended as criticisms, not
less general than concise, of Pope’s style and
character as a poet. They are as follows:—
Of Pope’s pithy conciseness of
style Swift—no diffuse writer
himself—has so emphatically said— For Pope can in one couplet fix More sense than I can do in six.
Imitators of Horace and Juvenal were Boileau and Pope—of one as well as of the
other of whom it may be said— Meme en imitant toujours original.
At the commencement of the biography Pope’s personal characteristics are summarily disposed of by a short
quotation scrawled in the margin.
Mr. Rawlinson of Sarsden House was a friend and
correspondent of Pope. Mr. R. said that
Pope was a troublesome friend and an implacable
enemy—who sometimes forgot favours, but never forgave injuries.
Again, as a foot-note to the preface, and à
propos of nothing in the text of the biography,
Byron writes:—
Pope’s Nymph of the Grot bears so striking
a resemblance to the delicacy of thought expressed in the following lines that one is
almost tempted to suspect him of plagiarism. Ad imaginem Nymphæ dormientis. Hujus nympha loci, sacri custodia fontis, Dormio—dum blandæ sentio murmur aquas; Parce meum, quisquis tangis cava marmora, Somnum Rumpere, sive bibas sive lavere, tace.
This was formerly in the Villa Julia at Rome, and is copied from the
‘Variorum in Europâ itinerum
deliciæ,’ edit. secund., 1599, by Nathan
Chytiæus; the book is very scarce.
On Mr. Ruffhead’s favourable
criticisms of the ‘Rape of the
Lock’ Byron succinctly remarks:—
In the ‘Rape of the
Lock’ Pope was indebted for his
idea of the machinery to the ‘Comte
de Gabalis’ of the Abbé
Villars, and for the account of their various employments to Shakspeare’s ‘Tempest,’ and ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ The
description of the ‘game of ombre’ is imitated from the ‘Scacchia’ of Victor. In other parts of the poem he has introduced frequent parodies of Homer, Virgil, and Milton. He has also judiciously employed the
celebrated fiction of Ariosto—that all
things lost on earth are treasured in the moon. In this receptacle of the lunar sphere,
says Ariosto, are to be found Le lachrime, e i sospiri de gli amanti, &c. &c.
Orlando
Furioso, canto 34.
Further on in the biography Mr.
Ruffhead writes:—
Our author having, by his translation of Homer and other works, placed himself in circumstances of affluence, he
was now at liberty to follow the true bent of his genius. The independence of his
fortune did not make him negligent of his fame, nor unmindful in the duty which he owed
to society, in the application of those talents which nature had so bountifully
bestowed upon him. His natural benevolence suggested to him that he could not better
serve the interest of society, than, as himself expresses it, by writing a book to
bring mankind to look upon this life with comfort and pleasure, and put morality in
good humour.
In this passage Byron underlines the word
mankind, and writes in the margin, ‘A malignant race
with Christianity
in their mouths and Molochism in their hearts.’ An early evidence this of
that gloomy misanthropy into which the ‘poet of pain,’ as he has been called,
loved to chafe his troubled spirit, but which was as alien from the daily practice of his
life as it was from his true nature.
But there was another subject of discussion which was still more interesting
to the friends, and which excited greater differences of opinion. Byron’s acquaintance with Charles Skinner
Matthews, a young man of consummate ability and of brilliant promise, whose
sentiments on religious subjects were avowedly sceptical, had, in the previous year,
ripened into intimacy, and had, doubtless, assisted considerably in confirming those doubts
and difficulties respecting revealed religion which Byron entertained,
and of which the seeds had been sown in early boyhood by the rigid doctrines of Calvinism.
These doctrines had been instilled into his infant mind with uncompromising firmness, and
as soon as his reasoning powers had full scope for their future development they revolted
from the tyranny under which they had previously been held in check, and rejected as
illogical so narrow-minded and bigoted a system. That the reaction had set in some years
before is proved by the religious poems contained in the boyish
publication entitled ‘Hours of
Idleness.’ In the ‘Prayer of
Nature,’ which breathes throughout a spirit of deep devotion to the Deity,
all systems are equally repudiated. Temples cannot confine the Omnipotent within their
precincts, therefore they demand no especial reverence; to no one sect or religious body
are His mercies and His promises confined; it is therefore immaterial to which men belong.
From such a vague denial of the responsibilities of revealed religion, the step to an
actual rejection of such religion was not a long one. And in the case of
Byron the progress in the direction of absolute disbelief was
considerably accelerated by the fascinating friendship of that clever and witty companion
to whom we have referred, and who made no secret of his profession of atheism.
Hodgson, as we have seen, had recently renewed his
interest in the study of metaphysics; but so sound had been the religious training of his
youth, so deep and sincere was his natural piety, that he was neither at this time nor at
any other period of his life in any danger of making shipwreck of the faith. Not that his
eyes were ever closed to the manifold difficulties which beset the most perfect creed of an
imperfect race. But being fully persuaded in his own mind of the validity of the main and
vital truths of revealed
religion, no vain imaginings, no shallow scepticisms or fascinating fallacies of knowledge,
falsely so called, could shake his firm and unwavering faith in the authenticity of Bible
doctrine; and with all the earnestness of long-cherished conviction he strove to bring back
his young companion’s wandering footsteps into the paths of everlasting peace.
How different might have been the short sad story of Byron’s life if only the wise and affectionate counsel of his friend
had received the attention and consideration which it deserved! That it had more weight
than its recipient cared to admit is proved by the tone of some letters on religion which
were written in 1811 in answer to Hodgson’s
arguments in conversation and correspondence. Underneath the reckless statements which
these letters contain there runs a current of deep religious conviction, and belief in the
goodness and mercy of God, which at several subsequent periods came to the surface in acts
of really Christian forbearance and charity, and which, towards the end of his life, found
a vent in constant perusal of the Scriptures and, at the last, in submissive acquiescence
in the Divine Will.
That Byron was his own worst enemy has
often been noticed by his biographers. His extraordinary love of a bad reputation, of
exhibiting himself in the most unfavourable aspect, amounted almost to
insanity, and was in nothing more conspicuous than in his determination to represent his
religious opinions as far more sceptical than they really were. Many of his friends, and in
particular Hodgson and Scrope Berdmore Davies, a fellow of King’s at this time and mutual
friend of Byron and Hodgson, used constantly to
make fun of this idiosyncrasy. Byron, when absorbed in thought and
indulging in reckless speculations, used often, as he expressed it, to suffer from ‘a
confusion of ideas,’ and would sometimes exclaim in his most melodramatic manner,
‘I shall go mad.’ Scrope Davies, a true friend, and a
charming vivacious companion, who had a quaint dry manner of speaking and an irresistible
stammer, used quietly to remark in answer, ‘Much more like silliness than
madness.’
In the autumn of 1808, Byron having
partially repaired Newstead, was anxious to assemble his friends around him with as little
delay as possible. With this intent he wrote many pressing invitations to Hodgson, which do not appear to have been accepted until
some months later. In the meantime several letters passed between them, the first which
remains from Byron being dated Newstead Abbey, Nov. 3, 1808.
My dear Hodgson,—I expected to have
heard ere this the event of your interview with the mysterious Mr.
Hayne, my volunteer correspondent; however, as I had no business
to trouble you with the adjustment of my concerns with that illustrious
stranger, I have no right to complain of your silence. Hobhouse and your humble are still here.
Hobhouse hunts, &c., and I do nothing. We dined
the other day with a neighbouring esquire (not Collet of
Staines), and regretted your absence, as the banquet of
Staines was scarcely to be compared to our last
‘feast of Reason.’ You know laughing is the sign of a rational
animal, so says Dr. Smollett; I think so
too, but unluckily my spirits don’t always keep pace with my opinions. I
had not so much scope for risibility the other day as I could have wished, for
I was seated near a woman, to whom, when a boy, I was as much attached as boys
generally are, and more than a man should be. I knew this before I went, and
was determined to be valiant, and converse with sang froid, but, instead, I forgot my valour and my
nonchalance, and never opened my lips even to laugh, far less to speak, and the
lady was almost as absurd as myself, which made both the objects of more
observation than if we had conducted our-selves with easy
indifference. You will think all this great nonsense; if you had seen it you
would have thought it still more ridiculous.
I have tried for Gifford’s Epistle to Pindar, and the bookseller says the
copies were cut up for waste paper: if you can procure me a copy I shall be
much obliged. Adieu!
Believe me yours ever sincerely, Byron.
It was about the middle of this month that the faithful favourite
‘Boatswain’ died, a dog whose name is almost as
famous as his master’s. This sad event was at once announced to Hodgson in a characteristically tragic letter, of which
Moore quotes the most important sentence.
Boatswain is dead! he expired in a state of madness on the
18th, after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his nature to the last,
never attempting to do the least injury to anyone near him. I have now lost everything
except old Murray.
The next letter begins in the same melancholy strain.
Newstead Abbey, Notts: Nov. 27, 1808.
My dear Sir,—Boatswain is to
be buried in a vault waiting for myself. I have also written an epitaph, which
I would send, were it not for two reasons: one is, that it is too long for a
letter; and the other, that I hope you will some day read it on the spot where
it will be engraved.
You discomfit me with the intelligence of the real orthodoxy
of the ‘Arch-fiend’s’ name, but alas! it must stand with me
at present; if ever I have an opportunity of correcting, I shall liken him to
Geoffrey of Monmouth, a noted liar
in his way, and perhaps a more correct prototype than the Carnifex of James II.
I do not think the composition of your poem ‘a sufficing
reason’ for not keeping your promise of a Christmas visit. Why not come?
I will never disturb you in your moments of inspiration; and if you wish to
collect any materials for the scenery, Hardwicke (where Mary was confined for several years) is not
eight miles distant, and, independent of the interest you must take in it as
her vindicator,1 is a most beautiful and venerable
object of curiosity. I shall take it very ill if you do not come;
1Hodgson was writing a poem at this time on Mary Queen of Scots.
my mansion is improving in comfort, and, when you require
solitude, I shall have an apartment devoted to the purpose of receiving your
poetical reveries.
I have heard from our Drury; he says little of the Row, which I regret: indeed I
would have sacrificed much to have contributed in any way (as a schoolboy) to
its consummation; but Butler survives,
and thirteen boys have been expelled in vain. Davies is not here, but Hobhouse hunts as usual, and your humble servant
‘drags at each remove a lengthened chain.’ I have heard
from his Grace of Portland on the subject
of my expedition: he talks of difficulties; by the gods! if he throws any in my
way I will next session ring such a peal in his ears, That he shall wish the fiery Dane Had rather been his guest again.
You do not tell me if Gifford is really my commentator: it is too good to be true,
for I know nothing would gratify my vanity so much as the reality; even the
idea is too precious to part with.
I still expect you here; let me have no more excuses.
Hobhouse desires his best
remembrance. We are now lingering over our evening potations. I have extended my letter
further than I ought, and beg you will excuse it; on the opposite page I send
you some stanzas I wrote off on being questioned by a former flame as to my
motives for quitting this country. You are the first reader.
Hobhouse hates everything of the kind, therefore I do
not show them to him. Adieu!
Believe me yours very sincerely, Byron.
Moore gives extracts from other letters written
about the same time as the preceding. In one of his answers Hodgson had remarked, jestingly, that some of the verses in ‘Hours of Idleness’ were calculated to
make schoolboys rebellious. This suggested a comparison with Tyrtæus, and an allusion to that lameness of which the sensitive poet
so often spoke with a sort of good-humoured sarcasm.
If my songs have produced the glorious effects you mention, I shall be a
complete Tyrtæus; though I am sorry to say
that I resemble that interesting harper more in his person than in his poesy.
Hodgson remembered an occasion, also mentioned by
Moore, when, in a large and mixed company, a
vulgar person asked Byron aloud, ‘Pray, my Lord,
how is that foot of yours?’ ‘Thank you, Sir,’
answered Lord Byron, with the utmost mildness, ‘much the same as
usual.’
The next letter is written in so light and playful a strain, and is such a
remarkable contrast to the melancholy style of those which precede it, that the fragmentary
form in which it appears in Moore’s
Life can only be accounted for by supposing that some of its allusions were
considered likely to wound living sensibilities. However this may have been, there can be
no possible reason for suppressing any of it, after the lapse of nearly seventy years.
Newstead Abbey, Notts: Dec. 17, 1808.
My dear Hodgson,—I have just received your letter, and one from
B. Drury, which I would send, were
it not too bulky to despatch within a sheet of paper; but I must impart the
contents and consign the answer to your care. In the first place, I cannot
address the answer to him, because the epistle is without date or direction;
and in the next, the contents are so singular that I can scarce believe my
optics, ‘which are made the fools of the other senses, or else worth
all the rest.’
A few weeks ago, I wrote to our friend Harry Drury of facetious memory, to request he
would prevail on his brother at
Eton to receive the son of a citizen of London well known unto me as a pupil;
the family having been particularly polite during the short time I was with
them, induced me to this application. ‘Now mark what follows,’ as
somebody or Southey sublimely saith: on
this day, the 17th December, arrives an epistle signed B. Drury, containing, not the smallest
reference to tuition or intuition, but a petition for Robert Gregson, of pugilistic
notoriety, now in bondage for certain paltry pounds sterling, and liable to
take up his everlasting abode in Banco Regis. Had this letter been from any of
my lay acquaintance, or, in short, from any person but
the gentleman whose signature it bears, I should have marvelled not. If
Drury is serious I congratulate pugilism on the
acquisition of such a patron, and shall be happy to advance any sum necessary
for the liberation of the captive Gregson; but I certainly
hope to be certified from you or some reputable housekeeper of the fact, before
I write to Drury on the subject. When I say the fact I mean of the letter being
written by Drury, not having any
doubt as to the authenticity of the statement. The letter is now before me, and
I keep it for your perusal. When I hear from you I shall address my answer to
him, under yourcare; for as it is now the vacation at Eton, and the
letter is without time or place,
I cannot venture to consign my sentiments on so momentous a concern to chance.
To you, my dear Hodgson, I have not much to say. If you can make it convenient or
pleasant to trust yourself here, be assured it will be both to me.
Before this year (1808) came to an end Hodgson went to Newstead; but there is no record of this first visit,
except a copy, which he took at the time when they were composed, of the celebrated lines inscribed by Byron on the cup formed from a skull, together with a rough sketch of the
cup itself.
Early in the following year we find Hodgson in correspondence with Gifford on literary subjects, and actively engaged in writing for Reviews.
On April 25, 1809, Gifford writes from James Street:—
My dear Sir,—Business and illness have conspired to
prevent me from noticing your obliging note before. I have just been with
Murray, and discovered that your
conjecture is well founded. I therefore, with great pleasure, entrust the
‘Four
Slaves’1 to your
1 The ‘Four Slaves of Cythera,’ by
the Rev. Robert Bland, editor of the celebrated ‘Anthology,’
and author of ‘Edwy and
Elgiva,’ and other poems.
care. . . . I have read the poem
with great satisfaction. Is the plan of it original, or formed on some legend?
It is wild enough for an Arabian tale, but probability is not of much moment.
There are many beautiful flights of genuine poetry of the good old English
stamp. The light parts are very pleasant, but a passage here and there is too
familiar. There are, besides, a few ungrammatical terms; things not improper to
be noticed, especially when the general merit is so great. I hope that
Mr. Bland is by this time recovered.
I puzzled him sorely the other day by sending him a letter destined for a grave
divine; but it may be some consolation to him to know that I puzzled the said
divine still more.
The translation of
Hesiod, if you have leisure and inclination, is very much at your
service. I have just looked into it. The poetry, I suppose, is well enough for
the subject, which is neither very amusing nor very interesting. The notes are
stuffed out with corrections of Cooke;
about as wise a process, as if we had employed ourselves in the correction of
Rhodes. There is also a vast deal taken from Jacob Bryant’s ‘Mythology,’ which, I thought, no
one at present ever looked at without a smile. The
Doctor1 is
much pleased with your approbation of his book; it cost him much
pains—whether they might have been better bestowed, this deponent sayeth
not; but he has pleased the Westminsters. Autant de
gagné!
Ever, my dear Sir, Most sincerely yours, Wm. Gifford.
P.S. You are right. I have no northern coadjutor but
Scott;2 at
least, at present.
From the same to the same.
James Street, Buckingham Gate: June 3, 1809.
My dear Sir,—I have been so busy in forwarding our 2nd
No.3 that I have not been able to look to the right
hand or the left. It is now out, and I am running away for a short time to the
seaside to refresh my eyes and do nothing. I do not wonder that some
objectionable passages are found in the first No. I see too many myself, but
the allusion to the holy-water of the Mexican converts is an historical fact.
But, in truth, there is vast room for
1Dean
Ireland. 2Sir
Walter.
3 The allusions to a Review in these two
letters refer to the Quarterly, which had only just come into existence under
Gifford’s auspices,
and to the early numbers of which Hodgson contributed.
improvement; and for this I am
very anxious. Such articles as appear in some of the smaller reviews might be
got by loads, but we aim at, or at least wish for, something better. That we
shall succeed is, indeed, problematical; but without it, it is quite certain
that we might as well sit with our hands before us, and do nothing. It is not
by common exertions that the ‘Edinburgh Review’ can be met, and the others are not objects
of contention. To write panegyrics and. satires is easy enough; but this is not
criticism: and I have already been obliged to omit more than I have inserted.
From you, my dear Sir, I look for valuable assistance: for this, it will be
necessary to put friendship out of the question, and to judge from established
principles of the art. What has sunk the British critic but a base dereliction of all independence? I know
little of the other Reviews, but I suspect they do not flourish
greatly—and from the same cause.
Lord Byron’s poem1 sales well I understand. I have an angry review of
it, which I shall not use; for though it is well written, it is manifestly
unjust. Unless works can be made to amuse or instruct the reader, it is loss of
time to dwell long on them or
1 ‘English Bards.’
indeed to dwell on them at all. ‘Hesiod,’ which is gone to your
cousin,1 may
afford a neat article, but seems scarcely worth a long one. However, you will
judge. I think, indeed, that almost all our articles are too long.
If success be a proof of merit (which it certainly is not) we
might be vain; for our second number is nearly out of print in the first three
days. Yet we must look forward to something better.
Ever, my dear, Sir, Your very faithful friend and servant, Wm. Gifford.
P.S. I leave town this morning for Ryde, in the Isle of
Wight, where I shall remain for about six weeks, and where, as well as in
every other place, I shall be glad to hear from you.
In the autumn of this year (1809) the public oratorship at Cambridge fell
vacant, and Hodgson unsuccessfully contested it. His
residence at Cambridge had hardly been long enough to entitle him to success, and Mr. Tatham, of St. John’s, the successful candidate,
had anticipated him in obtaining the votes of the most influential members of the Senate.
Nevertheless, that Hodgson’s claims were fully recognised
1John Hodgson.
Esq., a barrister at Lincoln’s Inn.
is proved by the complimentary
letters which he received from many men of eminent distinction. Sir Vicary Gibbs, then Attorney-General, who had defeated Lord Palmerston in the preceding year in the representation
of Cambridge, considered him eminently qualified for the office; Lord
Palmerston himself wrote very courteously regretting that he had already
promised to support Mr. Tatham, a member of his own college; Lords
Euston, Clarendon, and Althorp, and H.R.H. The
Duke of Gloucester wrote in a similar strain.
After this disappointment Hodgson
again turned his thoughts to private tuition as an employment for his vacations. The
following letter from Dr. Goodall, then head-master
of Eton, is in answer to an application on this subject, and is written with the easy
elegance which characterised that most dilettante of Dominies, who probably had slight
suspicion that the young man whom he now addressed with such condescending kindliness, was
destined to be his next successor in that provostship of Eton to which he himself was
shortly to succeed.
Upper School, ex Cathedra: Nov. 14, 1809.
My dear Sir,—While half a hundred unwilling poets are
labouring with all their might to draw off the spirit of
the 32nd chapter of Deuteronomy, which they will most
of them do very effectually in one sense at least, I have full leisure to
acknowledge the receipt of your letter, and to say that I have little doubt of
having occasional opportunities of assisting your views, which I shall most
gladly embrace, but must consider the parents of the boys who may be fortunate
enough to be your pupils as the persons obliged. I have unwittingly transferred
the description of my own live stock to the sons of Alma Mater: I should
certainly have said the young men. Would that I could have added my
congratulations! I am induced to think that only a nomination1 was wanting.
Many thanks for your kind greetings. My Brethren must fully
share with me whatever praise accrues from the present order of things at Eton.
Believe me to be with the truest regard,
My dear Sir, Yours ever most faithfully, J. Goodall.
Considering the state of stagnation then prevailing at Eton Dr. Goodall’s compliment to his colleagues must be
regarded as of doubtful value.
1 This, of course, refers to the public oratorship.
Among Hodgson’s letters relating
to this period there is one addressed to his father
by an old friend, dated December 29, 1809, part of which is not without interest as
throwing the light of contemporary opinion upon the state of public feeling on the war and
its great instigator Bonaparte:—
I hope that this mild winter has been propitious to your health, as well
as Mrs. Hodgson’s. In this part of the
world we have hitherto had nothing that deserves the name of winter. I wish I could say
that the political season was as mild as the natural; this, however, is by no means the
case; the political almanack makers prognosticate great changes: I fear that some of
the Cabinet will fall victims to the Walcheren typhus; but I am
not yet convinced that it will kill the whole Cabinet: I presume there must be an
inquiry, and perhaps the result of it may prove that our commanders adopted the most
prudent, though not the most glorious, line of conduct. All sorts of changes are of
course rumoured, but my opinion is that the Government will meet the question fairly.
There is one difficulty, however (I think the principal one), which will unavoidably
embarrass any administration, even a new one: the war has spun out
into great length, and the expenses of it bear heavily on most
people. I had flattered myself that somehow or other matters would have
jumbled into something like peace, but in this expectation I have indeed been
disappointed. Bonaparte seems, however, disposed
to enter on a more peaceable career, and, after having so long been the universal
destroyer of mankind, to endeavour to make amends for the ravages of his sword by a
life of matrimonial usefulness. Of course he is to do great things in thirty years, but
I sincerely trust that, at any rate, he may be disappointed in his wishes to preserve
the crown of France to the Corsican Dynasty, and that if he ever should have a son, it
may be taken from him as he took away the unfortunate Duke
d’Enghien. The sister of the Emperor of Russia, who has already
refused him twice, is again the object of his choice.
In May of this year Byron invited his most
intimate friends to Newstead for a last visit before his departure from England, of which
visit Charles Skinner Matthews has given a graphic
account; and in June he addressed a farewell letter to Hodgson from Falmouth with a spirited copy of verses quoted by Moore, some of which, however, might have been well
omitted, as the vivacity and verve with which they are written hardly compensate for their
coarse-ness. This remark
applies equally to several passages in letters which were carefully marked for omission by
Hodgson, before being forwarded to Moore, who
had previously promised scrupulously to regard Hodgson’s wishes
in this matter, but who could not resist the temptation to insert everything which would,
in his opinion, directly or indirectly contribute to the success of his work. It will be
perceived that such a proceeding was equally unfair to the writer and to the recipient of
these letters. Byron was very young, only twenty-one, when they were
written, and was full of animal life and spirits. His innate love of mischief, of shocking
people’s prejudices, and of representing himself as far more reckless and irreligious
than he really was, doubtless contributed to suggest sentiments and modes of expression
which his better judgment would have condemned, and which no one more deeply deplored than
the person to whom they were addressed.
For the two years of Byron’s first
absence from England he corresponded constantly with Hodgson; and some of this correspondence, hitherto unpublished, but full of
interest, will be found in the following pages.
At the beginning of the present chapter reference was made to John Lonsdale, as being a contemporary of Byron’s at Cambridge, and as sharing with
him Hodgson’s friendship at that time. How
sincere that friendship was is attested by the following lines, written by
Hodgson at night in the stage coach, on his way to the Bury
election. Lonsdale, in his youth, wrote poetry, but had the generosity
and good sense to admire and appreciate at its proper value the genius of his brilliant
companion.
Multa fides Plectri Sociis, et cara SororiMulta Venus. Let warlike chiefs with envious eye Behold a brother’s fame; Let close-leagued statesmen fairly vie To win the noblest name. But, Lonsdale! let not
gentler minds Renounce their native pride, That chain of love which firmly binds Our rival to our side. Oh, thou hast loved the high-soul’d youth, Whose song transcended thine, Nor heaved one sigh, to wrong the Truth That praised his glowing line. Thy heart has beat, when friends around Rehearsed his rapturous lays, True echoes to the noble sound That spoke thy rival’s praise. Thus oft on David’s heav’nly lyre Hung Saul’s enchanted son; Thus kindled, as the thrilling wire Their tuneful contest won. Thus oft in Ovid’s
wondering ear Propertius’ music flow’d; Thus o’er Tibullus’
youthful bier Their mutual pity glow’d. Thus Horace raised his Virgil’s fame; Thus, different far in mind, Far humbler bards, in heart the same, Still love the tuneful kind. The Muse with a magnetic force Attracts her genuine sons, And each upon his crowded course With blameless ardour runs. I dream not of the vulgar crew Who damn’d to deathless fame, Their native dirt on Dryden
threw, Or envied Pope his name. Dumb scorn be theirs! The faintest ray That Virtue darts within Drives Envy’s gathering clouds away, And banishes the sin. How to his Gray’s
exalted height Did conscious Mason bend, And, buried in that blaze of light, Still feel the bard his friend. Yes, Lonsdale, yes, the friendly glow Is sweeter far than fame; Not only tuneful breasts below That generous feeling claim: Oft have I seen the beauteous maid Admire a sister’s grace, And mark well-pleased the homage paid To her triumphant face. And thus, methought, in realms above Rejoicing saints may see Some tribute of angelic love To brighter purity. Such thoughts be thine, my manly friend! Reject unworthy fear: Some generous rival shall attend, And urge thy own career. But haste to Life! no glorious scope Can in these walls be found; * The grave of disappointed Hope Ambition’s early bound. Here Indolence with baneful frost Shall nip the vernal bloom; Here Shame shall mourn o’er glory lost, And Vice await its doom. Haste, haste to Life! Thy heart be zeal, Discretion be thy tongue; Grow old in honour quick, but feel In friendship ever young.
Dear Lonsdale,—The jolting of the Bury coach must palliate the
roughness of the above. Think of what I say. But do not only think—act!
act! Dum res, et astas, et Sororum Fila trium patiuntur atra.
If I am not at home (but I intend to be so at present) by 9
o’clock to-morrow night, say there will be no lectures on Tuesday.
Yours, F. H.
1 King’s College.
CHAPTER VI. LETTERS FROM HIS FATHER—POLITICAL ALLUSIONS—IMPRISONMENT OF
SIR FRANCIS BURDETT—POLITICAL SQUIBS—LINES BY
DENMAN—EPITAPH FOR
WINDHAM—FATHER’S DEATH. 1810.
In the spring of the following year some letters, addressed to
Hodgson at Cambridge by his father, contain
sensible criticisms of current literature and politics.
Barwick: March 5, 1810.
My dear Frank,—We had been for
some time expecting to hear from you, and therefore your letter by
yesterday’s post was received with much pleasure. Mr. Coke I should hope has some small chance of
getting Gladestry. But the Chancellor1 I understand is notorious both for making promises
and breaking them.
I do not think the Walcheren inquiry will
1Lord
Eldon.
turn the ministry out. The expedition was set about too
late, as indeed all our military schemes always are; but, considering the
circumstances, as much was done as could be expected. The loss of so many men
by sickness is the only thing to be regretted. Lord
Chatham was not the fittest person to execute it; his subsequent
conduct is not to be defended. So I give him up. The epigram1 is excellent.
I read the ‘Monthly
Review’ some days ago, and immediately recognised your hand in
two of the articles—the Persius’2 and the ‘Chatterton.’ They both
are well done and do you credit. You will say I am growing fastidious, for I do
not admire Dr. Ireland’s learned
book on Paganism,
&c. At this time of day such stale objections ought not to be stirred. When
Rome existed and was heathen they might be proper, but not so now. They have
lost all their interest. The book, however, is a proof of the various research
and consummate judgment of the writer. The Westminster boys when they heard it
must have been amused if not edified
1 ‘The Earl of
Chatham, with his sword drawn, Stood waiting for Sir Richard
Strahan; Sir Richard, longing to be at
’em, Stood waiting for the Earl of
Chatham.’
2Stowes’sTranslation of
Persius.
by the lecturer. It was
impossible for them to understand what he was about. I read it through with
some attention, and admire very much the abstracts given from Austin and Cicero, and Varro,
cum multis aliis et Graecis et Latinis. His observations
on your note respecting Socrates1 came from Mosheim and a sermon of Barrows; and they were well founded; but his expression that
Socrates did not teach a proper
creation, is a very improper one. Any writer less affected would have
said, Socrates did not teach a creation properly so
called; but ohe, jam satis.
My time has been much engaged2 of
late in pursuing a gang of villains who have long infested Leeds and this
neighbourhood. Eleven are already in York Castle, where I purpose going on
Monday to be present at their trials, and to give some of them a good word to
the judge; who I hope will be my old friend and schoolfellow, Sir Simon Le Blanc; we have not met since we
parted in the year 1766 at the Charter House. We all join in our love, and a
wish to hear from you soon.
Yours always, J. Hodgson.
1 Vide supra, p. 89.
2Mr. Hodgson was a
very active magistrate.
From the same to the same.
Barwick: March 28, 1810.
My dear Son,—I have been for some days working myself
up to a resolution to answer several letters of a much longer date than yours,
but have taken you first, as a proof that you stand before all others in my
thoughts and affection. Indeed you have put a question to me that rather
required an earlier notice. Shall you go to Rugby this year, if the same
office1 is offered to you? Not if you are a loser
by the honour. But I should think that might be remedied by a candid statement
of the facts to your friend Dr. Wooll.
The examiner ought to have a remuneration clear of all expenses. Then it would
be an object worth seeking. This is my opinion; I leave you to judge if it is
well founded. It has struck me that if Sir J.
Cotterell could be prevailed on to apply to the Chancellor of
the Exchequer for the living of Gladestry, the procrastinating Lord Eldon would be driven to a decision. I am
sorry to be obliged to believe all the hard things you say of him; but he has
certainly committed himself to such censure in too many instances.
1 That of Classical Examiner of the Upper Forms.
Turning out Mr. York,
for a silly boy, I certainly do not approve of. If his being unshaken in his
attachment to the present Government be a fault, it surely is a venial one; and
if his being rewarded for it is blameable, I suspect there are not many who
would not gladly submit to the same blame on the same account. Mr.
York is a man of character, of family, and of considerable
talents, and must be respectable, whether he is your county member, or for any
petty borough. The epigram on ‘Gratia gratiam
parit’ is very fair. Mr. Bull must be
excused in all his absurdities for the sake of his old Whig principles. But
what think you of Lord Erskine and
Mr. Clifford, and their wish to exclude from the bar
all persons engaged in periodical papers? Such an infamous project was never
heard of; but it may be forgiven, if for no better reason, than from having
been the occasion of that noble burst of eloquence from Mr.
Stephens and Sheridan.
The ‘Battle of
Falkirk’ I have not yet seen, but my longing is increased both
by your remarks and those of the ‘Critical Review.’ The translation1 of
the ‘Georgics,’
which are noticed in the last ‘Monthly Review,’ I have no sort of
wish
1Stawell and Deare’s.
to know more of. I more than suspect I know the critic.
I am glad to hear Mr.
Bland is doing well at Amsterdam. In these fearful times the
ministers of the Church have a difficult task to perform, in an enemy’s
country, with an unsettled Government. I augur favourably from the union
between Bonaparte and the Austrian
princess. It may lead to that which the sword could never bring to pass. I saw
my old schoolfellow Le Blanc at York,
and was cordially recognised by him at a large party to whom he gave a dinner.
We returned to our boyish days, and he seemed pleased with the recollection of
our former intimacy. As a judge he is far above my praise. Such mildness in
expounding the laws, and such firmness in enforcing them, gave me a very high
opinion of his head and heart. My villains, at least six of them, are sentenced
to transportation for seven years; but, in order to convict them, it was found
necessary to admit four of them as evidence.
The Edinburgh severe tribunal has passed sentence on our
present Ministers with such diabolical malice, and has given such an alarming
picture of the evils it supposes to be impending, that were it to obtain credit
it would be impossible to go to
our beds with any degree of comfort or security. But are we to judge of the
state of affairs from the factious babbling of a Waithman or a Wardle, or
the intemperate and ill-informed opinions of young partisans, or from the
general demeanour of the majority of the public? They seem to be perfectly
satisfied that the State is not going to ruin; nor can they be otherwise when
they see a disposition in their rulers to reform all abuses, to correct all
unnecessary expenditure, to encourage commerce and agriculture, and whatever
tends to improve and enrich the country; above all, when they see the laws so
impartially and so promptly executed, and even-handed justice protecting and
punishing all persons without favour or distinction, according to their merits.
If dinner had not been announced I could have improved the panegyric by
entering on a detail of the meritorious services of Mr. Perceval, Lord
Castlereagh, and Lord
Chatham.
I am ever, dear Frank,
yours, James Hodgson.
From the same to the same.
Barwick: April 26, 1810.
My dear Son,—I have been so very unwell for the last
fortnight as to have been in some degree obliged to defer
till now making an acknowledgment of your last letter. . . . . Thank you for
the epigrams! Your pupil room, under the auspices of two such demigods,1 must be the ipsissimus locus scientiæ et
sapientiæ. In answer to your query respecting Butler’s ‘Analogy,’ I will transcribe a note
which I made many years ago, and which stands now in the first blank page of
Archbishop Secker’s Sermons,
vol. I. ‘The merit of these sermons consists in explaining, clearly and
popularly, the principles delivered by Butler in his
famous book of the “Analogy,” &c.,
and in showing the important use of them to religion.’ Upon this I
observed at the time: ‘This remark applies more particularly to
Secker’s first three sermons, vol. i.’
Dr. Burney of Greenwich has lately
published an abbreviated edition of ‘Pearson on the Creed.’ Perhaps it
may be more readable than the original. After all, the book, the whole book, is
aureum opus.
I lament your separation from the ‘Quarterly Review,’ because the last two
numbers have given me a high opinion of the writers in it. Dr. Ireland has shown his transcendent
abilities in more than one article if I am not mistaken. I have not seen the
last ‘Monthly,’ and
therefore cannot say anything
1Locke and Pearson.
of its merits. But I should
imagine one Review quite enough for one critic. It pleases me much to hear you
speak so handsomely of Mr.
Griffiths.1
I am happy to add your mother is getting better. She has been
out once in the carriage, and we are going again to-day to call on the new
proprietors of Parlington, Mr. and Mrs. Oliver
Gascoigne.
We all join in love and best wishes,
Yours always, J. Hodgson.
From the same to the same.
Barwick: May 16, 1810.
My dear Frank,—Only six days you
will please to take notice from the date of your last, for which habeo
gratias. Certainly Terence, if
he did not write better plays than Plautus,
&c., wrote his own language with greater purity and elegance. I know he was
called ‘dimidiate Menander,’
but a nick-name may imply excellence as well as defect.
I have not, indeed, been engaged in reviewing essays upon
Plato, but I have been re-reviewing
certain manuscripts that once a week are submitted to our village critics. This
morning, indeed, I have
1 Editor of the Monthly.
been deep in the ‘Monthly,’ and much pleased with the first article, Maurice’s translation of the
‘Iliad.’ The
critic1 seems to be no ordinary hand, and to be
well acquainted with the different merits of rhyme and blank verse. I was glad
to perceive he had a good opinion of Cowper’s talents in general, though no admirer of his
‘Homer.’ But
I do not agree as to the pompous inanity of the author of the ‘Task.’ Crabbe I have not read, and for the present
feel satisfied with the copious extracts in the ‘Review.’ I had almost let slip
Homer’s astronomical simile, of the correctness
of which I once was convinced by the remark of a countryman, a carpenter I
believe. ‘Mrs.
Plunkett’ I shall certainly not cut, if uncut; and if cut, I
shall not open. Marsh’sletter I have sent for. He
cannot exercise the lash too severely on a set of scoundrels who set no bounds
to their imposture. I agree with you entirely as to the absurdity of our very
learned Doctors shooting over the heads of their readers and hearers. But
stripped of their fine dress, I suspect they would lose some of their admirers.
But what is so useful or so attractive as plain sense in plain language!
Warburton I have read, and thought
him, when intelligible, a very superior writer.
1 This was Francis
Hodgson.
There was an excellent critique on
the correspondence between him and Bishop
Hurd in one of the last Quarterly Reviews. ‘Hyloe’
was the name of one of Bishop
Berkeley’s dialogues on the non-existence of matter out of the
mind. Such reasonings are not substantial enough for me. Dr. Burney’s edition of Pearson seems to be like
spoiling a pudding by taking the plums out of it.
The political ferment of the last month is, from the proper
firmness of the Ministry, beginning to subside. The extreme party seem at last
to be aware of the mischief that must arise from indiscriminate abuse.
Wardle and Waithman would never have taken such
liberties, had not Windham and Whitbread set them the example. Mr. Ponsonby, the vir pietate gravis ac
meritis, hath amply redeemed all past perverseness by his
admirable speech. As for Sir
Francis,1 yet a little while and he will
be forgotten. His tutor blames, it is said, his late conduct. But this I much
doubt. Deportation will probably be the fate of some of these worthies, if they
renew their machinations. The thieves I committed to York, and who are now
lying in the hulks, are to be sent off to South Wales2
by the first conveyance. This is the last
1Burdett. 2 New South Wales.
favour I could show them for expressing publicly their
wish to return to Barwick, for no other purpose than that of murdering me and
two or three others. But are these men so bad as Burdett
and Company?
We all join in wishing you health and happiness.
Yours, James Hodgson.
In the preceding month Francis Hodgson
had received a letter from his cousin, John Hodgson,
of Lincoln’s Inn, which contains a vivid description of the imprisonment of Sir Francis Burdett.
Lincoln’s Inn: April 9, 1810.
My dear Frank,—The review of Anstey’sworks is at length completed; I hope it
will make ten or twelve pages, but it has been written piecemeal and amidst
many interruptions, and I cannot pride myself much upon it. However, such as it
is, Griffiths shall have it to-night or
to-morrow. You have, of course, seen how civil the ‘Critical’ has been to you.
Sir Francis Burdett was taken to the
Tower this morning. As he had repeatedly declared, both publicly and privately,
that he would not surrender, it was necessary to resort to force. His house was accordingly
invested this morning, between nine and ten, by a large party of civil
officers, headed by the Sergeant-at-Arms, and backed by a very strong military
guard; and, admission being refused, the door was broken open, and the windows
on the first floor scaled. He made no personal resistance, and was therefore
conveyed into a carriage, and, attended by a regiment of Horse Guards, was
safely lodged in the Tower. As the Guards passed through Fenchurch Street and
that neighbourhood the mob grew so troublesome and insulting that they were
obliged to fire, and a sort of skirmishing took place, in which one man was
killed, and some others wounded. When the service was performed the Guards left
the City by the way of London Bridge. I long very much to see the Tower with
its ditch filled, guns mounted, drawbridge up, &c.; I hear it looks quite
grand.
I cannot quite agree in your opinions of this business. With
respect to the commitment of Gale Jones,
although I am rather surprised at the existence of such a power, I cannot see
any ground to dispute it. All text writers of every age acknowledge it, the
most liberal and constitutional judges have uniformly approved of it, and the
precedents are as old as there are journals of the House, and the earliest of them speak of the power as one of the
undoubted privileges of the House of Commons. Nor do I see any indiscretion in
the exercise of the power in Jones’s case: he was by
his own confession guilty, and the publication was of a mischievous tendency.
His detention in prison is entirely owing to his refusal to make a proper
apology to the House and to petition for his discharge. With respect to
Sir Francis himself, he had admitted
the power of the House to commit one of its own members; and surely when they
had resolved that his letter was a libel, it was too gross a one to merit
anything but the highest punishment they could inflict. It would have been
better in my opinion if neither of these absurd publications had been noticed
at all; but, as they were noticed, the House was bound to maintain its dignity,
and vindicate its ancient and established rights and privileges.
The riots have been very considerable, especially on Saturday
night when the Horse Guards were obliged to be very active, and some blood was
certainly spilt, but I do not think it clear that any life was lost till this
morning. Cannon were planted in Soho, Bloomsbury, and Lincoln’s Inn
Squares, and quite a park of artillery opposite the offender’s house in
Piccadilly. I understand there are
fourteen thousand troops in London. Meantime Bonaparte is getting happily married and settled at Paris.
Let me hear from you soon; and believe me dear Frank, yours
very affectionately,
John Hodgson.
On another occasion Sir Francis
Burdett was conveyed by river to avoid the mob—an event which
suggested to Hodgson the following political squib,
to which are appended some lines on other political agitators of the period.
THE PATRIOTS. A Cantata. Recitative. Her ladyship sits in Wimbledon bower To see her dear lord return from the Tower, With the merry merry cleavers’ jocund tone, And the merry merry sound of the marrow-bone. But Sir Francis returns another way, For thus to him Lord Moira did say: Air—‘Begone, dull Care.’ ‘Begone, Burdett! I prithee begone
from me; Begone, Burdett, as soon as you’ve paid your fee! (Aside with deep reflection.) The Speaker may dance, and the Serjeant may sing, So merrily pass the day; For I’ve held it always the wisest thing To row Burdett away.’
Recitative. Mrs. Waithman behind the counter doth sit A-measuring out the linen so nice. But where is her mate, ‘the terror of
Pitt?’ He’s giving the councilmen good advice. Air—‘Oh, the joys beyond expression!’ ‘Oh, the joys of speechifying! Oh, the rapture mouthing brings! Idly raving, basely lying, Damning laws, insulting kings. Oh, how blest the linendraper Who all day makes speeches bright— And in the “Statesman,” moderate paper, Reads them o’er again at night!’ Recitative. Mrs. Jones is placed at the British Forum To welcome her Gale with due decorum; For no longer in Newgate must he stay, And they’ve turn’d him out of his lodging to-day; They’ve turn’d him out ere his friends approach, And whipp’d him off in a hackney coach. Air—‘Strawberry Hill.’ ‘Let others praise Mac’ullum, And Dodd and Glennie
tell; But little folks love John Gale Jones, Love John Gale Jones as well. With some men Hague and Hogan May bear away the bell, But not a patriot in the town Doth John Gale Jones excel,’ &c.
Denman, writing about the same time, encloses some
characteristic lines on a recent election.
’Tis over! This tool of contractors and knaves— This hireling of hirelings—this servant of slaves— Despised in our heart and condemn’d by our voice— Must be sent to the House as the man of our choice. The defender of all for which Britain should fight, The gallant young champion of freedom and right, Whom each eye greets with gladness, each bosom admires, Overpower’d, not subdued, from the contest retires. What heart so devoted to fortune can be, What heart so abandoned, oh Glory, by thee, As to hug the dishonour which vict’ry makes sweet, And prefer such a triumph to such a defeat? The event for a moment let patriots deplore— Let liberty droop for a moment—no more! Her rights basely ravish’d she soon shall reclaim, Her force unabated, her spirit the same. Thro’ each generous bosom that spirit shall spread, When all the vile arts that opposed it are dead, When duty and shame at corruption shall spurn, And insulting oppression make cowardice turn, &c.
A letter of yours came yesterday; another this morning, enclosing one
which I immediately despatched to Richmond. You may depend on my going there as soon as
the numberless little but necessary things which the election has put out of my head
are tolerably got through. What a strange, divided state the Hugonots are got into! The great general denomination will, I fear, be broken into a
variety of sects, Pædobaptists, Independents, Millenarians, &c. I am a good
deal disposed in my own mind to the scheme of the Fifth Monarchy. But you, who talk of
gloominess and solitude and consequent despondency, how enviable must your situation
be, with Paley and Bland, whom you will see before or soon after this letter, in your
immediate neighbourhood! I hope there is a half-way house, and shall picture to myself
a beautiful little cottage covered with straggling vines, and surrounded with a large
rambling sort of garden, &c.
Just before the long vacation Hodgson
wrote to his father enclosing some verses on Windham.
Cambridge: June 15, 1810.
My dear Father,—I am quite ashamed to see the distance
between the date of your last letter and that of the present. But I should have
written much sooner had I not wished to give you an account of a visit which my
uncle and cousins have been paying me at Cambridge. They came on Saturday and
went away on Wednesday last. The time passed very pleasantly in examining
halls, and chapels, and libraries; some of which sights were new even to myself. On the last day they had an
opportunity of hearing of a pretty severe display of university discipline; for
the stern Calvinist of Queen’s, Dr.
Milner, expelled four young men for certain irregularities,
which have passed for some years with reprehension much less rigorous. The
party seemed much pleased with their visit; and I was very glad to have an
opportunity of showing them the lions.
What a strange mysterious business the attempt to assassinate
the Duke of Cumberland—but what a
loss the public have had in Windham!
Great and good as he was, he would have been missed in any times, but in the
present his death is a general calamity. Some of the attendants upon his
funeral, which took place at Felbrig, passed through this town yesterday.
Surely he should have been buried in Westminster Abbey! The thought struck me
so forcibly that I prepared an epitaph for him, which I transcribe for you
below. Tell me if you think it is tolerable: worthy of its subject I am aware
it is not.
EPITAPH FOR WINDHAM. Ye sacred stones, by English mourners prest, Where Fox and Chatham’s son in concord rest,
Open your vaults, and at their honour’d side Place the third prop of England’s falling pride. What worthy claimant of this hallow’d tomb Lives yet to check his country’s awful doom? Close, close your vaults, ye stones, for ever close, Where glory’s last Triumvirate repose. Oh! timely call’d to share the patriot’s grave, Nor see the ruin’d State thou couldst not save. Windham, adieu! by all the good
approved, By Johnson honour’d, and
by Burke beloved, In Truth’s decay to high-soul’d Virtue true, Thou setting star of ancient Fame, adieu! What prescient terrors at thy loss arise! What tears of sorrow fill Reflection’s eyes! Who now remains, with treasured Learning fraught, To wake like thee the teeming world of thought? Who now remains in rival ardour strong, To roll the tide of eloquence along? Prompt at thy call creative Fancy came, And Reason bore thee on her wings of flame: Fancy unfelt by Slavery’s venal crew, Reason too bright for Dulness’ owlet view. Rejoin, blest shade, the sons of Genius fled, And swell the synod of the virtuous dead. Revered companion of the good and wise, Rejoin thy loved precursors in the skies.
I am glad you like the review of ‘Maurice.’ That of the ‘Minstrels of Acre,’ and of ‘Wallace,’ in the last
month, were also mine. Look in future for Christie’s ‘Etruscan Vases,’ Girdlestone’s ‘Pindar,’ Butler’s ‘Æschylus,’ and Drummond’s ‘Hercula-nensia;’ and Walter
Scott’s ‘Lady
of the Lake.’ A noble poem!
My lectures are over, and my brother tutor has arrived. But I
shall stay here till commencement, working at my reviews. This will be the
first week in July; and I shall then accompany a college friend, who drives me
across country to Harrow. From thence I shall turn my face northwards, and,
getting into some ‘leathern convenience’ at Barnet, shall early in
August, I hope, reach Barwick. Friends in London are quite well again. May this
letter find you, my mother and sister,1 in health and
spirits! The blessing of the latter I begin to feel more sensibly every day. Singula de nobis anni praedantur euntes. Adieu, my
dear father! With kindest love ever yours,
F. H.
The Latin quotation in the last sentence of this letter was unconsciously
prophetic. In accordance with his intention, mentioned above, Francis Hodgson spent the greater part of his vacation at Barwick, and on
the day of his departure for Cambridge his father, having seen him off by the coach from
Leeds, sat on the bench as a magistrate, and, on his return to Bar-
1 Married to her cousin the Rev.
G. F. Coke, and died young.
wick in the evening of the same day, died quite suddenly of heart
disease. His character is sketched in outline in a letter of condolence addressed by an old
and favourite pupil, Cecil Jenkinson, afterwards
Lord Liverpool, to his friend and former companion
Francis Hodgson.
Ditchford Hall: October 20, 1810.
My dear Frank,—I received the
melancholy news conveyed to me by your letter the day before yesterday, and
should have expressed to you my feelings sooner had not a particular engagement
on that day, and the circumstance of the post not going out yesterday from
Shrewsbury, prevented me from so doing. It is impossible for me to express to
you how much I lament the event which has deprived you of a kind and
affectionate father, and myself of an
old, sincere, and valued friend. My obligations to your father are so well
known to you that, was it not for fear of the accusation of ingratitude, it
would be needless for me to mention them in this place. From the period of time
which was passed by me at sea my education would have been deplorable had I not
received from him that fostering aid and assistance which enabled me to appear
at the university little inferior in my classical studies to those whose
education had been con-ducted
by the more certain and regular process of public education. His manner of
instruction was not the least part of the obligation I owe your father; he
inspired me with that desire of knowledge which alone enabled me to make the
rapid progress I did. I must beg that you will at a proper moment convey to
your mother those feelings of sorrow which I have attempted but faintly to
express. It would be, I am sure, unnecessary for me to tell you that my
attachment to your father will be remembered by me towards those whom he has
left behind. I hope, if your avocations call you at any time either towards
this county or London, that you will favour me with a visit, and that you will
believe that you can never have a more sincere or affectionate friend than
Cecil Jenkinson.
This sudden and unexpected death involved Francis
Hodgson in serious pecuniary difficulties. His father had held successively
the livings of Humber in Herefordshire, of Keston in Kent, of South-Repps in Norfolk, and
lastly of Barwick-in-Elmet in Yorkshire, besides having been minister of the Savoy Chapel
in the Strand, and chaplain to Lords Hawksbury and
Dunmore. The frequent re-movals
which these several preferments entailed had occasioned considerable expenses, and the
rectory house and grounds at Barwick had recently undergone various important alterations
and improvements. The rector, moreover, had long been accustomed to exercise open-handed
liberality to his poorer parishioners, and, in anticipation of his future ample
capabilities of repayment of loans, had left out of sight the uncertainty of life.
Francis Hodgson at once determined to discharge all his
father’s debts—an undertaking which for some years continued to embarrass him,
until the extraordinary generosity of his friend, Lord
Byron, placed him once more in a position of independence.
CHAPTER VII. CONTRIBUTIONS TO REVIEWS—EARLY POEMS—LINES TO
BYRON. 1811.
Having previously engaged to contribute to the ‘Monthly’ and ‘Critical’ Reviews, Hodgson was reluctantly compelled to terminate his connection with the
‘Quarterly’ after the
publication of its first few numbers. The similarity of the subjects discussed, and the
arduousness of his other avocations, rendered this step necessary, although the almost
immediate success of the ‘Quarterly’ must have made
such a step doubly distasteful. But in the ‘Critical’
and ‘Monthly’ Reviews of this period nearly all the
articles on classical subjects, and very many others on English and French literature, were
written by Hodgson, and display impartial criticism, an extensive and
profound erudition, and a correct, cultivated taste. Girdlestone’s edition of the ‘Odes’ of Pindar, for instance; Butler’s
‘Æschylus’ and
‘Musæ
Cantabrigienses’ were thoroughly congenial subjects, while two extremely
learned and diffusely interesting essays on recent discoveries at Herculaneum and on
Christie’s ‘Etruscan Vases’ prove the minuteness of his
archaeological and philological researches.
In the article on the
‘Musæ
Cantabrigienses’ there are some curious criticisms of contemporary scholarship
at Cambridge. The early effusions of the great Dr.
Keate are there characterised by his old pupil as ‘boyish;’ but
it is also admitted that a bold and original spirit pervades his poems, and that, if they
be not correctly classical in their flow, they must be forgiven for their unborrowed
harmony and for that first of poetical virtues— Wild Nature’s vigour stirring at the root.
But while Dr. Keate is pronounced to
possess more fire than any other contributor, both he and Dr.
Butler are found guilty of a fault which, to modern head-masters, will
appear sufficiently astonishing. Each of them, more than once, uses a final vowel short
before ‘sp’ and ‘sc’! The ode of C. J.
Blomfield (afterwards Bishop of London) on the assassination of the
Duc d’Enghien, is declared to be below
criticism. ‘Who but his French assassins,’ it is asked, ‘could have been guilty of such
rudeness as to put such language into the mouth of that unfortunate prince.’
But the Greek ode of this poet is said to redeem his Latin peccadilloes, and
he is understood to be a very promising scholar of Trinity College. Other contributors are
commemorated as follows: J. Lonsdale, of
King’s College, 1807, elegantly and forcibly bewails the death of Pitt. Rennell’s (King’s College, 1808) Greek ode on
‘Spring’ is a very spirited and elegant production; and Joseph Goodall, the present Provost of Eton, commemorates
the earthquake in the West Indies, in an ode dated 1781, with much poetic spirit; while of
the epigrams, the ‘Bellus Homo Academicus,’ by the
last-named author, both in Latin and Greek, is tame mediocrity—one of those cheap
displays of wisdom which nobody values because everybody possesses it, yet, in point of
expression, these are perhaps two of the best in the epigrammatic collection. Keate on a ‘Donkey Race,’
ϋστερον
προτερον, is not bad. Frere on a ‘Dumb Beggar’ is excellent. B. Drury on the ‘Mutilated Statue of Ceres’
demands praise. Silence best describes the rest.
In his review on ‘An Essay
on Plato by M. Combe-Dounous,’ Hodgson writes a masterly vindication of Christianity
against the attacks of the French sceptic, who professes a preference for Platonism, and
who, like other infidels, ‘proudly limits the power of the Creator by the
creature’s ignorance.’ At the conclusion of his essay M. Dounous explains the extraordinary influence of early
Christianity by an astonishing assertion, ‘Le sage Hébreu s’etait
attaché des disciples parmi les lettres de sa nation,’ and is thus answered by
his reviewer:—
Arise in judgment against your false historian, ye poor and humble
propagators of the Gospel of Christ, and bid him blush for that philosophy which can
condescend to advocate its cause by unmanly misrepresentations. Who but St. Paul was learned among you? Who were the deep and
plotting philosophers, who, after the death of their Master, met at Jerusalem to lay
the doctrines of Plato, and Pythagoras, and Zeno
under contribution; and by this eclectic method to form a syncretism of moral and
religious opinions for the learned, and of prodigies and miracles for the vulgar? Where
is the record, the history, the hint of such a proceeding? Who were the actors in this
drama? What secondary causes, in a word, supposing all the unwarrantable assertions of
this fanatic Platonist (for in charity we must suppose that he is an enthusiast) to be true, will account for
the promulgation of Christianity? The speech of Gamaliel has never been and can never be answered: ‘If
this counsel or this work be of men, it will come to nought; but if it be of God,
ye cannot overthrow it.’ It is melancholy, indeed, that this
clever and learned Frenchman, whose style is so superior, should have perverted his
distinguished talents to so malignant an attempt as the substitution of the wild
chimeras of Platonism, the ignis fatuus of pagan philosophy, for the clear and steady
light of Christianity.
On English literature Hodgson’s
reviews are so numerous and extensive as to render even the most partial reproduction
impossible; but there are a few concluding remarks in that one which treats of Scott’s ‘Lady of the
Lake,’ which, from the world-wide celebrity of the poem, and from the
interest which belongs to contemporary criticism, may well be quoted here. The various
imitators of Scott, who copied his style without sharing
his genius, are mentioned with becoming severity. Numerous verbal and grammatical lapses
are pointed out, and are attributed to the glowing haste with which the poem was composed;
and then, after many eulogistic remarks expressive of enthusiastic
admiration for the poet’s genius, Hodgson concludes his critique
by saying:—
We may just observe that the notes contain some amusing stories, with
others that are dull, and shall now take our leave of Mr.
Scott, expressing a most sincere wish that his farewell address to his
harp may not be more serious than the farewell addresses of poets usually are; and
adding that we hope our specified objections to parts of his poem, whether they be
faults in the conduct of the plot, or inaccuracies of diction, will induce his numerous
imitators at least to pause ere they contribute further to the wide corruption of our
taste which is occasioned by such servility. We wish that we might reasonably hope that
their great original himself, animated by the noble hope of living in the praises of
posterity, would, even now, in the full tide of his present fame, lend an ear to our
admonitions. Then might he soar like his own eagle,1 and
silence all his contemporaries.
Hodgson’s first original poems were published
in 1809, under the title ‘Lady Jane Grey, a
Tale in Two Books, with Miscellaneous Poems in English and Latin,’ which
were, on the whole, very favourably
1Lady of the Lake, canto iii. 55-60.
received by the public and the press. After
alluding with some asperity to the satire on some of the reviewers of the translation of Juvenal, mentioned in a former chapter, the
‘Critical’ with singular
generosity declares:—
For ourselves, we have always been, and still are, Mr. Hodgson’s friends, however he may despise
our goodwill; willingly, therefore, we dismiss his satire from our recollection, and
pass to a more grateful subject, the gentle Lady Jane.
A comparison follows with the ‘Force of Religion; or, Vanquished Love,’ by
Dr. Young.
The subject is indeed very differently treated by the two poets. The
plan adopted by Mr. Hodgson has one great
advantage over that of the earlier author, since, by carrying back the scene to those
hours of peace and love which were passed by Lady
Jane in company with her books and her beloved Dudley, before the fatal ambition of a father had involved her in the
final miseries of her existence, he has not only gained the advantage of much natural
and pleasing description and many moral reflections of a stamp less awfully affecting
than those to which the sad catastrophe of the tale gives
occasion, but has likewise obtained those more technical benefits which the skilful
artist knows how to derive from the force of contrast and the various emotions of the
mind. The character, too, of his principal personage is much more truly and more
beautifully represented by exhibiting it both in the lights and shades of life. . . .
In the execution of his task it is safe to affirm that Mr. H. has most decidedly
surpassed his predecessor; and this not only in the superior ease and correctness of
his versification, but also in the grace of his descriptions and the pathetic
sentiments and reflections with which he has diversified and adorned his narrative.
‘Dignified’ and ‘elegant’ are the epithets applied
by the ‘Monthly’ to ‘Sir Edgar,’ which it considers to be
remarkable for a pleasing solemnity both of thought and cadence.
The rest of these volumes, which is made up of short poems on various
subjects, and translations of the classics, is said to exhibit something not very unlike
the inside of the study of a statuary or painter, which usually contains a whimsical
collection of fragments and sketches, of designs half executed and then thrown aside, of
forms just struggling for deli-verance from the marble, or ready to start into life from the darkness of the canvas.
Songs, tales, rhapsodies, fragments of letters, elegies amorous and moral, parodies,
ballads, translations, burlesques, sonnets, epitaphs, epigrams, imitations, all follow each
other in gay confusion.
But if [adds the reviewer] the severer order of critics may condemn the
total absence of arrangement and connection apparent in the formation of this motley
group, those who are more indulgent may pardon the author in consideration of the
superior amusement which the reader will derive from this very want of order. Mr. Hodgson literally appears to think in verse,1 and to set down every thought in his book as fast as it occurs
to his imagination. But all whose minds are in any degree imbued with the same love of
rhyme and the same variety of fancy which distinguished the author, will follow him
with infinitely more satisfaction than they would the gravest and most methodical of
his lecturers. Many of these poems exhibit uncommon powers of versification, and a
fancy strongly occupied by all those enchanting impossibilities which
1 Sponte suâ carmen numeros veniebat ad aptos, Et quod tentabam dicere versus erat. Ovid, Trist.
Eleg. x. 25, 26.
are peculiarly the inheritance of the poet. The forms of gaiety,
and mirth, and love, of melancholy, and madness, and despair, are hastily summoned and
speedily dismissed; they come like shadows, so depart; but there is something desultory
and impatient in Mr. Hodgson’s poetical temperament which
must be corrected if he would do himself justice, and would reach that high degree of
excellence for which he appears to be destined. He has exercised himself long enough in
morsels and fragments. We hope to see him engage in designs of greater magnitude, and
try his powers of invention on a larger scale and by more continuous efforts.
Of ‘An Answer to the
Question of a Critic,’ the ‘Critical Review’ writes:—
If any inducement were wanting to treat Mr.
Hodgson in the most liberal spirit of criticism, the following excellent
criticism of his own would supply us with it:—
Where lies the charm ungovern’d Scott
displays? In the wild vigour of his lawless lays— And sudden bursts of tenderness are there, And warlike valour’s animating air; Castle and convent fill the glowing scene, Rocks tow’r around, and rivers roll between; The deeds of other days entranced we see, Heraldic pomp, and pride of chivalry; The plundering inroad, the tumultuous fight, Hail! minstrel, feast, fair dame, and gallant knight.
Of the shorter poems in this collection two were addressed to Lord Byron immediately before his first departure from
England. The concluding lines of the former contain timely admonitions respecting religion,
elicited, doubtless, by previous conversations and correspondence: the latter appeals to
the poet’s sense of responsibility as an hereditary legislator. After a comparison
between England and various foreign countries, and an allusion to the duties of patriotism,
the first poem continues:—
Yet if pleasing change allure thee O’er the roughly swelling tide, May the one great Guide secure thee— Byron, ne’er forget thy Guide. Mark Him, in the whirlwind riding, O’er the darken’d billows sweep; Mark Him, through the calm air gliding, Bid th’ obedient ocean sleep. See Him fill yon arch of Heav’n, Glitt’ring with the gems of night; See, nor hope to be forgiv’n Doubtful of His sacred light. See Him spread, in bright profusion, Varied wealth o’er ev’ry land; See, nor rest in blind delusion, Doubtful of His bounteous hand. But, if Nature fail to move thee With her rich external charms, Raise thy thoughts to Him above thee From thy conscious soul’s alarms. Feel that soul’s most deep recesses Touch’d by inspiration’s pen; Feel, nor trust in impious guesses Of the thankless sons of men. Then as o’er the midnight ocean Moves thy steady bark along, On the deck, in calm devotion, Breathe to Heav’n thy secret song. With the pure and holy feeling, Friendship in thy breast shall rise; And Remembrance, o’er thee stealing, Softly paint thy native skies. ENERGY. Byron! since rank’s discordant tone Allows the friendly sound— Byron! in energy alone Can genuine bliss be found. He who exerts his native powers Can ne’er be long deprest; Young hope shall chide his loit’ring hours, Glad triumph cheer his breast; But hope, but triumph far have fled From love’s despondent slave, Whose dream of rhapsody is dead In disappointment’s grave. Oh! then awake to glory’s voice, Last of thy noble line! Be eloquent renown thy choice, Be tuneful sorrow mine. ’Mid listening senates boldly stand Thy country’s firm support— Foe to rude faction’s slavish band, And flattery’s slaves at court.
This appeal received a satisfactory answer in that eloquent speech upon the
Frame-Breaking Bill, of which the speaker sent the first account to his no less wise than
considerate mentor, Francis Hodgson.
CHAPTER VIII. LETTERS FROM BYRON—MEETING IN LONDON, AND LINES
WRITTEN ON THE SAME DAY—DEATH OF
MATTHEWS—BYRON’S FIRST WILL, AND
A POEM ON ‘NEWSTEAD ABBEY,’ HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED. 1811.
The letters written by Byron
during his first pilgrimage, to which reference has been already made, are not less
remarkable for keen observation and genial good-humour, than for that morbid
self-consciousness which was their author’s bane throughout his life. Some few
sentences in the first of these letters give the keynote to many of the others, which are
written with a racy freshness strangely belying some of the melancholy and misanthropic
sentiments expressed in them. The date of this first letter is Lisbon, July 16, 1809.
Thus far have we pursued our route, and seen all sorts of
marvellous sights, palaces, convents, &c.; which, being to be heard of in
my friend Hobhouse’s forthcoming
‘Book of
Travels,’ I shall not anticipate by giving any account to you in a
private and clandestine manner. I must just observe that the village of Cintra,
in Estremadura, is the most beautiful, perhaps, in the world—very far
superior to my expectation—and Portugal pleasant enough. The inhabitants
have few vices, &c. . . . The first and sweetest spot in this kingdom is
Montserrat, lately the seat of the great Beckford.1
Hodgson! send me the news, and Hobby’sMissellingany, and the deaths and
defeats, and capital crimes, and the misfortunes of one’s friends, and
the controversies and criticisms. All this will be pleasant, suave mari magno, &c. Talking of that, I have
been sea-sick and sick of the sea. Adieu!
Alluding to these Spanish letters, Byron
writes to Drury when on board the
‘Salsette’ frigate on his way from Smyrna to Constantinople.
Of Spain I sent some account to our Hodgson, but have subsequently written to no one save notes to
relations and lawyers to keep them out of my premises. I mean to give up all
connection, on my return, with many of my best friends, as I supposed them, and to
snarl all my life. But I hope to have
1 The millionaire; author of Vathek, and other works.
one good-humoured laugh with you, and to embrace Dwyer and pledge Hodgson before I
commence cynicism. . . . Remember me to Claridge
if not translated to college, and present to Hodgson assurances of
my high consideration.
On the same voyage, when in the Dardanelles off Abydos, he writes to
Hodgson a letter, extracts from which, although
already in part published by Moore, will bear
repetition.
I am on my way to Constantinople after a tour through Greece, Epirus,
&c, and part of Asia Minor, some particulars of which I have just communicated to
our friend and host H. Drury. With these, then,
I shall not trouble you; but, as you will perhaps be pleased to hear that I am well,
&c., I take the opportunity of our ambassador’s return to forward the few
lines I have time to despatch. . . .
I have lived a good deal with the Greeks, whose modern dialect I can
converse in enough for my purposes. With the Turks I have also some male acquaintances;
female society is out of the question. I have been very well treated by the Pashas and
Governors, and have no complaint to make of any kind. Hobhouse will one day inform you of all our adventures. Were I to
attempt the recital, neither my paper nor your patience would hold out during the
operation. Nobody save yourself has written to me since I left England; but, indeed, I
did not request it. I except my relations, who write quite as often as I wish. Of Hobhouse’s volume I know
nothing, except that it is out; and of my second edition I do not even know that, and certainly do
not, at this distance, interest myself in the matter. My friend H. is naturally anxious
on the head of his rhymes, which I think will succeed, or at least deserve success; but
he has not yet acquired the ‘calm indifference’ (as Sir Fretful has it) of us old
authors. I hope you and Bland roll down
the stream of sale with rapidity, and that you have produced a new poem.
Of my return I cannot positively speak, but think it probable Hobhouse will precede me in that respect. We have been
very nearly one year abroad. I should wish to gaze away another at least in these
evergreen climates; but I fear business —law business, the worst of
employments—will recall me previous to that period, if not very quickly. If so,
you shall have due notice. I am very serious and cynical, and a good deal disposed to
moralise; but, fortunately for you, the coming homily is cut off by default of pen, and
defection of paper.
Good morrow! If you write, address to me at Malta, whence your letters
will be forwarded. You need not remember me to anybody, but believe me yours with all
faith,
Byron.
The postscript to this letter, which has never hitherto been published, was
written on May 15, 1810, immediately after his arrival at Constantinople.
Constantinople: May 15, 1810.
P.S.—My dear H.,—The date of my postscript will
‘prate to you of my whereabouts.’ We anchored between the Seven
Towers and the Seraglio on the 13th, and yesterday settled ashore. The
ambassador is laid up; but the secretary does the honours of the palace, and we
have a general invitation to his table. In a short time he has his leave of
audience, and we accompany him in our uniforms to the Sultan, &c., and in a
few days I am to visit the Captain Pasha with the commander of our frigate. I
have seen enough of their Pashas already; but I wish to have a view of the
Sultan, the last of the Ottoman race. Of Constantinople you have Gibbon’s description, very correct as
far as I have seen. The mosques I shall have a firman to visit. I shall most
probably (Deo volente), after a full inspection of Stamboul, bend my course
homewards; but this is uncertain. I have seen the most interesting parts,
particularly Albania, where few Franks have ever been, and all the most
celebrated ruins of Greece and Ionia. Of England I know nothing, hear nothing,
and can find no person better informed on the subject than myself. I this
moment drink your health in a bumper of hock; Hobhouse fills and empties to the same; do you and Drury pledge us in a pint of any liquid you
please—vinegar will bear the nearest resemblance to that which I have
just swallowed to your name; but when we meet again the draught shall be mended
and the wine also.
Yours ever, B.
In a letter to Drury, written on
the 17th of the next month, Byron writes:—
And Hodgson has been publishing
more poesy. I wish he would send me his ‘Sir Edgar’ and Bland’s
‘Anthology’ to Malta,
whence they will be forwarded. . . . I wish you would write. I have heard from
Hodgson frequently.
And on July 4, 1810, he writes from Constantinople as follows:—
My dear Hodgson,1—Twice have I written—once in answer to
your last, and a former letter when I arrived here in May. That I may have
nothing to reproach myself with, I will write once more—a very
superfluous task, seeing that Hobhouse
is bound for your parts full of talk and wonderment. My first letter went by an
ambassadorial express; my second by the ‘Black John’ lugger; my
third will be conveyed by Cam, the miscellanist. I shall
begin by telling you, having only told it you twice before, that I swam from
Sestos to Abydos. I do this that you may be impressed with proper respect for
me, the performer; for I plume myself on this achievement more than I could
possibly do on any kind of glory, political, poetical, or rhetorical. Having
told you this I will tell you nothing more, because it would be cruel to
curtail Cam’s narrative, which, by-the-bye, you must
not believe till confirmed by me, the eye-witness. I promise myself much
pleasure from contradicting the greatest part of it. He has been plaguily
pleased by the intelligence contained in your last to me respecting the reviews
of his hymns. I refreshed him with that paragraph immediately, together with
the tidings of my own third edition,
1 This letter has never been published.
which added to his recreation. But
then he has had a letter from a Lincoln’s Inn Bencher full of praise of
his harpings, and vituperation of the other contributions to his Missellingany,
which that sagacious person is pleased to say must have been put in as FOILS
(horresco referens!); furthermore he adds that
Cam ‘is a genuine pupil of Dryden,’ concluding with a comparison
rather to the disadvantage of Pope. . . .
I have written to Drury by
Hobhouse; a letter is also from me on its way to
England intended for that matrimonial man. Before it is very long I hope we
shall again be together; the moment I set out for England you shall have
intelligence, that we may meet as soon as possible. Next week the frigate sails
with Adair; I am for Greece,
Hobhouse for England. A year together on the 2nd July
since we sailed from Falmouth. I have known a hundred instances of men setting
out in couples, but not one of a similar return. Aberdeen’s party split; several voyagers at present have
done the same. I am confident that twelve months of any given individual is
perfect ipecacuanha.
The Russians and Turks are at it, and the Sultan in person
is soon to head the army. The Captain Pasha cuts off heads every day, and a Frenchman’s ears; the last is a serious affair.
By-the-bye I like the Pashas in general. Ali
Pasha called me his son, desired his compliments to my mother,
and said he was sure I was a man of birth, because I had ‘small ears and
curling hair.’ He is Pasha of Albania six hundred miles off, where I was
in October—a fine portly person. His grandson
Mahmout, a little fellow ten years old, with large
black eyes as big as pigeon’s eggs, and all the gravity of sixty, asked
me what I did travelling so young without a Lala? (tutor).
Good night, dear H. I have crammed my paper and crave your
indulgence. Write to me at Malta.
I am, with all sincerity, yours affectionately, Byron.
During an excursion in the Morea, which occupied the next few months,
Lord Byron was attacked by a fever, which nearly
proved fatal, at Patras near Missolonghi, where, fourteen years afterwards, he died of a
similar complaint. On his partial recovery he wrote to Hodgson a letter dated Patras, Morea, Oct. 3, 1810, which is so
illustrative of the intimacy then existing between them, and in many ways so characteristic
of the writer, that its previous publication by Moore does not preclude the interest which the insertion of extracts from
it here can hardly fail to excite.
As I have just escaped from a physician and a fever, which confined me
five days to bed, you won’t expect much ‘allegrezza’ in the ensuing
letter. In this place there is an indigenous distemper, which, when the wind blows from
the Gulf of Corinth (as it does five months out of six), attacks great and small, and
makes woful work with visiters (sic). Here be also two physicians, one of whom trusts
to his genius (never having studied); the other to a campaign of eighteen months
against the sick of Otranto, which he made in his youth with great effect. When I was
seized with my disorder, I protested against both these assassins; but what can a
helpless, feverish, toast-and-watered poor wretch do? . . . In this state I made my
epitaph—take it:— Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove, To keep my lamp in strongly strove; But Romanelli was so
stout, He beat all three—and blew it out. But nature, being piqued at my doubts, did, in fact, beat Romanelli, and here I am well, but weakly, at your
service.
Since I left Constantinople I have made a tour of the Morea, and
visited Veley Pasha, who paid me great honours,
and gave me a pretty stallion. H. is doubtless in England before
even the date of this letter: he bears a despatch from me to your bardship. . . . As
for England, it is long since I have heard from it. Every one at all connected with my
concerns is asleep, and you are my only correspondent, agents excepted. I have really
no friends in the world; though all my old school companions are gone forth into that
world, and walk about there in monstrous disguises, in the garb of guardsmen, lawyers,
parsons, fine gentlemen, and such other masquerade dresses. So, I here shake hands and
cut with all these busy people, none of whom write to me. Indeed I ask it not; and here
I am, a poor traveller and heathenish philosopher, who hath perambulated the greatest
part of the Levant, and seen a great deal of very improvable land and sea, and, after
all, am no better than when I set out—Lord help me!
I have been out fifteen months this very day, and I believe my
concerns will draw me to England very soon; but of this I will apprise you regularly
from Malta. On all points Hobhouse will inform
you, if you are curious as to our adventures. I have seen some old English papers up to
the 15th of May. I see the ‘Lady of the
Lake’ advertised. Of course it is in his old ballad style, and pretty.
After all, Scott is the best of them. The end of all scribblement is to amuse, and
he certainly succeeds there. I long to read his new romance. And how does ‘Sir Edgar’ and your friend
Bland?
Dear H., remind Drury that I am
his well-wisher, and let Scrope Davies be well
affected towards me. I look forward to meeting you at Newstead, and renewing our old
champagne evenings with all the glee of anticipation. I have written by every
opportunity, and expect responses as regular as those of the Liturgy, and somewhat
longer. As it is impossible for a man in his senses to hope for happy days, let us at
least look forward to merry ones, which come nearest to the other in appearance if not
in reality; and in such expectations I remain, &c.
Having returned to his head-quarters at Athens, where he lived in the
Franciscan Monastery, as afterwards at Venice with the Armenians, Byron wrote again to his only English correspondent on November 14, 1810.
My dear Hodgson,1—This will arrive with an English servant whom I
send homewards with some papers
1 This letter has not before been published.
of consequence. I have been journeying in different parts
of Greece for these last four months, and you may expect me in England
somewhere about April; but this is very dubious. Hobhouse you have doubtless seen; he went home in August to
look after his Miscellany and to arrange materials for a tour he talks of
publishing. You will find him well and scribbling; that is, scribbling if well,
and well if scribbling. I suppose you have a score of new works, all of which I
hope to see flourishing, with a hecatomb of reviews. My works are likely to
have a powerful effect with a vengeance, as I hear of divers angry people, whom
it is proper I should shoot at, by way of satisfaction. Be it so: the same
impulse which made ‘Otho a
warrior’ will make me one also. My domestic affairs being,
moreover, considerably deranged, my appetite for travelling pretty well
satiated with my late peregrinations, my various hopes in this world almost
extinct, and not very brilliant in the next, I trust I shall go through the
process with a creditable ‘sang froid’ and not
disgrace a line of cut-throat ancestors. I regret in one of your letters to
hear you talk of domestic embarrassments; indeed I am at present very well
calculated to sympathise with you on that point. I suppose I must
take to dram-drinking as a succedaneum for philosophy, though, as I am happily
not married, I have very little occasion for either just yet. Talking of
marriage puts me in mind of Drury (who,
I suppose, has a dozen children by this time, all fine, fretful brats); I will
never forgive matrimony for having spoiled such an excellent bachelor.
If anybody honours my name with an inquiry, tell them of
‘my whereabouts,’ and write if you like it. I am living alone in
the Franciscan Monastery with one Friar (a Capucin of
course) and one Frier (a bandy-legged Turkish cook), two
Albanian savages, a Tartar, and a Dragoman: my only Englishman departs with
this and other letters. The day before yesterday, the Waynode (or Governor of
Athens) with the Mufti of Thebes (a sort of Mussulman Bishop) supped here with
the Padre of the Convent, and my Attic feast went off with great eclât. I
have had a present of a stallion from the Pasha of the Morea. I caught a fever
going to Olympia. I was blown ashore on the Island of Salamis, in my way to
Corinth through the Gulf of Ægina. I have kicked an Athenian postmaster, I
have a friendship with the French Consul and an Italian
painter, and am on good terms with five Teutones and Cimbri, Danes and Germans,
who are travelling for an academy. Vale!
Yours ever, ΜΠΑΙΡΩΝ.
From the ‘Volage’ frigate, at sea, June 29, 1811, Byron writes his last letter before reaching England, in a
strain of sadness half real and half assumed.
In a week, with a fair wind, we shall be at Portsmouth, and
on the 2nd of July I shall have completed (to a day) two years of
peregrination, from which I am returning with as little emotion as I set out. I
think, upon the whole, I was more grieved at leaving Greece than England, which
I am impatient to see, simply because I am tired of a long voyage. Indeed, my
prospects are not very pleasant. Embarrassed in my private affairs, indifferent
to public, solitary without the wish to be social, with a body a little
enfeebled by a succession of fevers, but a spirit, I trust, yet unbroken, I am
returning home without a hope, and almost without a desire. The first thing I
shall have to encounter will be a lawyer; the next a creditor; then colliers,
farmers, surveyors, and all the agreeable attachments to estates out of repair,
and contested
coal-pits. In short, I am sick and sorry; and when I have a little repaired my
irreparable affairs, away I shall march, either to campaign in Spain, or back
again to the East, where I can at least have cloudless skies and a cessation
from impertinence.
I trust to meet or see you, in town, or at Newstead,
whenever you can make it convenient. I suppose you are in love and poetry as
usual. That husband, H. Drury, has never
written to me, albeit I have sent him more than one letter; but I daresay the
poor man has a family, and of course all his cares are confined to his circle.
I regretted very much in Greece having omitted to carry the ‘Anthology’ with me.
What has ‘Sir
Edgar’ done? And the ‘Imitations and Translations;’
where are they? I suppose you don’t mean to let the public off so easily,
but charge them home with a quarto. For me, I am sick of ‘fops, and
poesy, and prate,’ and shall leave ‘the whole Castalian
state’ to Bufo, or anybody
else. But you are a sentimental and sensibilitous person, and will rhyme to the
end of the chapter. Howbeit I have written some 4,000 lines, of one kind or
another, on my travels. I need not repeat that I shall be happy to see you. I
shall be in town about the 8th, at Dorant’s Hotel in
Albemarle Street, and proceed in a few days to Notts, and thence to Rochdale on
business.
I am, here and there, yours, &c.
In his last letter from the ‘Volage’ frigate, off Ushant, he
writes to Drury, and at the end remarks:—
Hodgson, I suppose, is four deep by this time.
What would he have given to have seen, like me, the real
Parnassus, where I robbed the Bishop of Chrissæ of a
book of geography! But this I only call plagiarism, as it was done within an
hour’s ride of Delphi.
It was about this time that Hodgson
wrote one of those rhyming epistles to his friend, of which specimens have been already
given.
While modern Greeks, the shadows of their sires, Detain my Byron on that fabled
shore, And cull faint murmurs from those sacred lyres That thrill’d the bosom of the world of yore; Home-keeping still on England’s happier plains, To native beauty sounds my faithful lay; While native beauty smiles upon my strains, Why should I wish in Grecian woods to stray? For genius high and cultured taste are here, And all that Athens in her pride could boast; The sage’s eye that scans the glittering sphere, The patriot’s ardour in itself a host. Return then, Byron, to this favour’d land, For joy that flies thee cease in vain to roam; What joy can dwell with Turkey’s slavish band? Thy own time-honour’d Newstead calls thee home. Those mouldering walls where Phidias triumphs
yet (If safe from Elgin’s
sacrilegious guile), Can e’en their beauty bid thy soul forget Repentant Henry’s
consecrated pile? Forget the scene, where loyal valour strove— Forget the ranks where godlike Falkland died— Forget the youthful scene of promised love, Where love shall yet enjoy a fairer bride? Return, my Byron; to Britannia’s fair, To that soft pow’r which shares the bliss it yields; Return to Freedom’s pure and vigorous air, To Love’s own groves and Glory’s native fields.
About three weeks after the last of these letters was written the friends
met in London; but their first meeting was interrupted by the arrival of other visitors,
and Hodgson gave expression to the warmth of his
feelings in the evening of the same day by the following cordial effusion:—
My dear B.,—We were interrupted this morning in our
first interview; I wish to prolong it, so converse with me again.
Alone, my Byron, at Harrovian
springs— Yet not alone—thy joyous Hodgson sings; The welcome image of his friend’s return Fills his reviving heart, and bids it cease to mourn. O flow along, all unrestrain’d by art, Thou glad effusion of that grateful heart; Tell his recovered Byron, that once more It burns to see him on his native shore. It has not seen him yet! For who can know, Disturb’d by common-place, that genuine glow Uninterrupted friendship sweetly feels, And wisdom from the world’s vain commerce steals? First let inspiring Health, and patriot Pride, Behold thee rank’d upon thy country’s side; First let thy country’s foes severely feel Thy caustic ardour for the general weal. Spread, like a flame, my Byron, through the land That natural warmth no scoundrel can withstand; That blaze of light, which folly’s dearest shade Shall feel its inmost fastnesses invade. O’erthrow the bulwarks that corruption rears, And from proverbial dulness rescue half thy peers! Yet oh! while Virtue fires let Prudence guide, Nor argue, when she hints, but then decide. Sage that advice immortal Horace
gave, ‘Oft laughing wit excels reflection grave;’ Nor less divine that second maxim flows, ‘He writes the best who most correctly knows.’ He then shall speak, with Nature’s noblest
force, Who, free from parliamentary remorse, Untried, and pure, unpledged, and all his own, By patient labour to full knowledge grown, Shall weigh his country’s power by sea, by land, Shall half the foe’s resources understand; Shall smoothe advice with reconciling wit, And prove a Pericles but not a
Pitt. Athens! my Byron! Athens be thy aim! Thy inspiration and thy guide to fame! Not modern Athens—languid and impure, Body and soul unworthy of a cure— No, the fair land whose genius rose on high Like yon Acropolis that mocks the sky; The sky where earlier suns more proudly shone, On old Piraeus, and old Marathon! Adieu! mon ami. I am ever thine, F. H.
That they met again after a few days is shown by a note written next day
to Drury, in which Hodgson says:—
Byron prevented me from coming to you
yesterday. He kept me so late in conversation, that I could get no farther than
Kilburn in my walk, and then really thought it safer to return. He will come to
you, if you can receive him, on Saturday next. Send him
word to Reddish’s Hotel, St. James’s Street. Griffiths has sent me a pressing letter for
Don Roderick.
At the end of the month poor Byron, who
had been reluctantly compelled to remain in town for the settlement of some legal and
literary business, was suddenly summoned to Newstead by the serious illness of his mother,
the news of whose death reached him on the road. Almost simultaneously with the
announcement of this bereavement, he heard also of the deaths of his old Harrow
schoolfellow Wingfield, and of one of his most
cherished Cambridge colleagues, Charles Skinner
Matthews, who was drowned while bathing in the Cam. Of this most melancholy
catastrophe Drury wrote a graphic account
immediately after its occurrence. Matthews was, as has been remarked,
a young man of the greatest promise, and was a candidate for the representation of his
University in Parliament at the ensuing election.
King’s College, Cambridge.
My dear Hodgson,—All the way from Puckeridge to-day I was conning an
extempore laughing epistle; but have been so shocked with the account of poor
Matthews’s death, though I
never saw him, that I can only
write plain prose now. The reason I write is to request you not again to write
to Hart on the subject. He alone saw him
die—saw him in his very last agony—and but for him the body might
have been at this moment beneath the waters. Not fifty of the strongest-bodied
men in England could, without ropes, have given the slightest assistance. I am
this moment returned with Hart from the spot. There is
literally a bed of weeds, thick, more than eight feet deep. Poor
Hart, I see, is sadly cut down.
These are the facts. You know the fork above the mills,
thus—
1. Newnham mills. 4. Spot where Matthews was drowned. 2. Queen’s mills. 5. Freshmen’s pool. 3. Spot where Hart was bathing. 6. Course of the river towards
Grandchester.
Matthews had gone to bathe solo. Two
gownsmen came, bathed, and left Freshmen’s pool while he was bathing.
From the best computation he must have been in
three-quarters of an hour. These men (who did not know him) saw him (as in
bravado) stem down from points a and b what seemed an inextricable mass of weeds; these he cleared, had
got down to b, and was returning—the last they saw
of him, as they went homewards. Hart was alone on the bank
when he distinctly heard the cry of ‘Help, help!’ He had seen
nobody in the water; but, directed by the noise, he came to the spot. Nothing
was to be seen. He looked up and down the river (he was at a measured 140 yards
off when the άραια ϕωνή first came
to him). He looked up and down the river some time, as I said, and thought the
person might have escaped in the flags on the other side. Conceive his horror
when on a sudden there darted up in the middle of the river a human form
half-length out of the water. He made an excessive struggle. His arms were
locked in weed; so were his legs and thighs. You never saw such a place. He
looked most wistfully at Hart as if he knew him.
Hart, who had been incessantly holloaing
‘Help!’ (the two men came back, but too late to see the last),
called to him, ‘For Heaven’s sake, Matthews,
make no more exertions; try to keep still till a rope is procured!’ In a
resistless struggle Matthews then disentangled the weeds from his arms (I
saw the very weeds), and threw them from him. This effort was his last; as if
exhausted in it, he fell back. He was under the water in an instant, and no
trace was left of him. Hart succeeded in having him got
out in twelve minutes; but all too late. Every one who has been on the spot
highly commends all Hart did. I verily think he nearly
killed himself in his endeavours. The part of the river is the very broadest.
The weeds go from one bank to the other; and were, as I said, eight feet
perpendicularly deep. Temerity little short of madness could have induced
Matthews to attempt them. More when we meet.
God bless you, my dear friend! Henry Drury.
Byron, as may well be imagined, was deeply affected by
these successive shocks; and, becoming impressed with the idea that he was himself destined
to die young, he made a will in which he bequeathed his
Household goods and furniture, library, pictures, sabres, watches,
plate, linen, trinkets, and other personal estate (except money and securities) to his
friends J. C. Hobhouse, S. B. Davies, and Francis
Hodgson, their executors, &c., to be equally divided among them for
their own use, requesting them to accept the bequest therein
contained to them respectively, as a token of his friendship.
On the 22nd of August he wrote a warm invitation to Newstead.
You will write to me? I am solitary, and I never felt
solitude irksome before. Your anxiety about the critique on —
—’s book is amusing; as it was anonymous, certes it was of little
consequence. I wish it had produced a little more confusion, being a lover of
literary malice. Are you doing nothing? writing nothing? printing nothing? Why
not your ‘Satire on Methodism?’ The subject (supposing the public
to be blind to merit) would do wonders. Besides, it would be as well for a
destined deacon to prove his orthodoxy. It really would give me pleasure to see
you properly appreciated. I say really, as, being an author, my humanity might
be suspected.
Believe me, dear H., yours always, Byron.
Four days later than the date of the above, the following pathetic verses were despatched to Hodgson. It is strange indeed that they should never have
been previously published, as they must be admitted to be highly characteristic of their author, and
vividly illustrative of that morbid melancholy which was now settling fast upon him.
Newstead Abbey: August 26, 1811. I. In the dome of my sires as the clear moonbeam falls Through silence and shade o’er its desolate walls, It shines from afar like the glories of old; It gilds, but it warms not—’tis dazzling, but cold. II. Let the sunbeam be bright for the younger of days: ’Tis the light that should shine on a race that decays, When the stars are on high and the dews on the ground, And the long shadow lingers the ruin around. III. And the step that o’erechoes the gray floor of stone Falls sullenly now, for ’tis only my own; And sunk are the voices that sounded in mirth, And empty the goblet, and dreary the hearth. IV. And vain was each effort to raise and recall The brightness of old to illumine our hall; And vain was the hope to avert our decline, And the fate of my fathers has faded to mine. V. And theirs was the wealth and the fulness of fame, And mine to inherit too haughty a name; And theirs were the times and the triumphs of yore, And mine to regret, but renew them no more. VI And Ruin is fixed on my tower and my wall, Too hoary to fade, and too massy to fall; It tells not of Time’s or the tempest’s decay, But the wreck of the line that have held it in sway.
In answer to Drury’s letter
respecting the death of Matthews, Hodgson writes from the house of his uncle Mr. Coke, in Herefordshire, on September 1, 1811.
My dear Drury,—I send this to Walkerne, as I conclude you will have
returned ‘domum atque dulces liberos.’ I
have to thank you very much for your circumstantial letter concerning poor
Matthews. It was unfortunate that I
did not know Tom Hart was present at his
death; as I fear, by expressing what the wrong report in the newspapers
suggested to many readers, I ignorantly offended him. I am truly sorry for the
occasion, and trust he will as soon recover his spirits as can be expected
after such an accident. He was sure to exert himself to the utmost.
Your ‘Fen Gazette’ also reached me and caused
a hearty laugh. I ought to have acknowledged both these letters before. But our
engagements in this country are most numerous. So much so, indeed, that I have
been forced to neglect all my
correspondents, and to write nothing for the Review. . . . Thank Mrs. D.
for sending me your frank from Lord B. for the 28th of
August and filling it up with such a delightful mélange.
How joyous is Bland’s return! I have just heard from my cousin that he
arrived (on the 20th I think) at Deal, in a licensed vessel, with a French
passport. How he managed this I have yet to learn; but it is a most glorious
escape. I hear he is looking uncommonly well, and is in very good spirits.
I have heard from Byron, who is at Newstead. The deaths of his mother and of his friend Matthews seemed to press heavily upon him. He
tells me that a prosecution for a libel, published against him (in the
‘Scourge’), is in the
Attorney-General’s hands, and
will be brought forward in November. He begs me to come to Newstead—which
I should much like to do—but I must first attend my mother to Bath or London, whichever she fixes
upon. In October Byron talks of coming to Cambridge to see
Davies1—of course I should rejoice to receive him
there. You must tell me in your next your fen party. The good news about poor
Hawtrey is delightful.
1Scrope
Davies.
My best and kindest regards to Mrs. D. The bell tolls for breakfast, and another will soon
toll for church. So adieu!
Ever yours, F. H.
CHAPTER IX. CORRESPONDENCE WITH BYRON ON RELIGIOUS SUBJECTS. 1811.
It will have been observed that in the short poems addressed to
Byron abroad, Hodgson more
than once evinces anxiety on the score of his friend’s religious difficulties. This
anxiety was not likely to be lessened by the avowed infidelity expressed in the opening
stanzas of the second canto of ‘Childe
Harold,’ which Hodgson was now helping to correct for
the press. The deep despondency into which the pilgrim had fallen since the rapid
succession of deaths by which his return to Newstead had been saddened, seemed, moreover,
to point to the abiding sorrow of one who mourned without hope.
Earnestly desirous of establishing sound religious principles in the mind of
the young and ardent poet whose future was so full of bright promise for his country and for himself, while at the same time he offered such
permanent consolation as can alone be afforded to the bereaved by the sure and certain hope
in the resurrection to eternal life, Hodgson, who
had already begun seriously to contemplate the obligations which ordination involves,
wrote, with the affectionate zeal and well-timed consideration of true friendship,
directing his friend’s thoughts to the glorious inheritance which Christianity
promises to its faithful adherents, in the prospect of a reunion with the departed in a
blessed immortality. Byron was widely but not deeply
versed in philosophic and religious literature, and had been taught from boyhood, as has
before been noticed, to identify Christianity with Calvinism. The point of view from which,
about this period of his life, he regarded religious subjects may perhaps be best
understood by the perusal of an unfinished letter to Gifford, written two years later, from which the following is a passage:
‘I am no bigot to infidelity, and did not expect that, because I doubted the
immortality of man, I should be charged with denying the existence of a God. It was the
comparative insignificance of ourselves and our world, when placed in comparison with
the mighty whole of which it is an atom, that first led me to imagine that our
pretensions to eternity might be overrated. This, and being early disgusted with a Calvinistic Scotch
school where I was cudgelled to church for the first ten years of my life, afflicted me
with this malady; for, after all, it is, I believe, a disease of the mind, as much as
other kinds of hypochondria.’
This frank avowal proves that Hodgson’s remonstrances, which have unfortunately been lost, but to
which the following letters are answers, had, in all probability, a far greater effect upon
their recipient than he cared, at the time, to admit; and that it was their powerful,
though perhaps unrecognised, influence which induced him ever afterwards to speak in a far
more reverent tone of those great subjects, which, whether a man believes, denies, or
doubts, must be admitted to be the most sacred of any which can engage his thoughts.
In reading even these letters, deeply interesting and instructive as they
are, as throwing light upon the history of such a mind, and as containing the most explicit
record extant of its religious sentiments, if such they may be called, some allowance must
undoubtedly be made for the love of shocking prejudices, the fondness for making
unprecedented statements and startling antitheses, which were so curiously characteristic
of their writer. Nor would it be fair to ignore the distinction, which he himself elsewhere
lays down, between a sneering and desponding scepticism. But, when
these reservations and explanations have been duly made, it is impossible to condemn too
severely the levity of several passages, or to deplore too deeply the pervading spirit of
defiant lawlessness which degraded his mighty genius and noble, generous nature to the
lowest depths of a despairing doubt.
It will, moreover, be remarked that the observations are sometimes strangely
superficial, and that the arguments, though plausible enough, are illogical and
inconclusive; and too often proceed upon that unsound system of a priori reasoning, which
(as Hodgson frequently observed of scepticism) limits the wisdom of an omnipotent Creator
by the ignorance of the imperfect creature.
Newstead Abbey: September 3, 1811.
My dear Hodgson,—I will have nothing to do with your immortality; we
are miserable enough in this life, without the absurdity of speculating upon
another. If men are to live, why die at all? and if they die, why disturb the
sweet and sound sleep that ‘knows no waking’? ‘Post
mortem nihil est, ipsaque mors
nihil’—‘quæris quo jaceas post
obitum loco?’ ‘Quo non nata
jacent.’ . . . As to revealed religion, Christ came to save
men; but a good Pagan will
go to heaven, and a bad Nazarene to hell; ‘Argal’ (I argue like the
gravedigger1) why are not all men Christians? or
why are any? If mankind may be saved who never heard or dreamt, at Timbuctoo,
Otaheite, Terra Incognita, &c., of Galilee and its Prophet, Christianity is
of no avail; if they cannot be saved without, why are not all orthodox? It is a
little hard to send a man preaching to Judæa, and leave the rest of the
world—niggers and what not—dark as their complexions, without a ray
of light for so many years to lead them on high; and who will believe that God
will damn men for not knowing what they were never taught? I hope I am sincere;
I was so at least on a bed of sickness in a far distant country, when I had
neither friend, nor comforter, nor hope, to sustain me. I looked to death as a
relief from pain, without a wish for an after-life, but a confidence that the
God who punishes in this existence had left that last asylum for the weary. όν ό Θεός
άγαπάει
άποθνήσκει
νέος.2 I am no Platonist, I am nothing at all; but I would sooner be a Paulician,
Manichean, Spinozist,
1 In Hamlet. 2 He whom God loves dies young.
Gentile, Pyrrhonian, Zoroastian, than one of the
seventy-two villanous sects who are tearing each other to pieces for the love
of the Lord and hatred of each other. Talk of Galileeism? Show me the
effects—are you better, wiser, kinder by your precepts? I will bring ten
Mussulmen shall shame you all in good will towards men, prayer to God, and duty
to their neighbours. And is there a ———,1 or a Bonze, who is not superior to a fox-hunting curate? But I
will say no more on this endless theme; let me live, well if possible, and die
without pain. The rest is with God, who assuredly, had He come or sent, would
have made Himself manifest to nations, and intelligible to all.
I shall rejoice to see you. My present intention is to accept
Scrope Davies’s invitation;
and then, if you accept mine, we shall meet here and there. Did you know poor
Matthews? I shall miss him much at
Cambridge.
The conclusion of this letter is unfortunately lost. Its first sentence seems
to supply a most inadequate reason for rejecting the hope of immortality. If, as is
implied, we are inevitably miserable in this life,
1 The word here is illegible.
it is surely more consistent with
God’s justice and mercy—both of which appear to be admitted—that we
should have further opportunities of attaining to happiness. To the alleged improbability
that life should be renewed after death, it may be answered with confidence that such a
process is not at variance, but quite in harmony, with the known method which the Almighty
undoubtedly does adopt in His government of the universe. Purely poetical expressions and
allusions to an obsolete system of Pagan ethics are hardly conclusive proofs to the
contrary.
The fallacies contained in the succeeding statements are apparent enough. In
the first place, it is unduly assumed that Christianity can never prevail among men;
inasmuch as statistics plainly prove that from the date of its foundation its influences
have been steadily, if slowly, increasing, and as there is every reason to believe that
they will continue to increase until ‘the earth shall be full of the knowledge of
the Lord, as the waters cover the sea.’ Secondly, that is emphatically
asserted, which no reasonable person could seriously deny, that those to whom the Gospel
message has never been offered cannot be considered responsible for its rejection.
What follows is so sadly and strangely prophetic, and so obviously devoid of
all logical consistency, that its only possible answer is a sorrowful
and sympathetic silence.
The scathing sarcasm of the next sentence was surely not much more or less
justifiable sixty years ago than it is singularly appropriate to the contemptible disunions
and controversies on non-essentials which characterise more modern Christianity; but the
unfairness of arguing generally against a creed because it necessarily involves abuses, is
too manifest to demand serious comment. Of the conclusion it may be noticed that it
certainly does not follow from the premisses; but that, even if it did so follow, the
premisses having been proved unsound, the conclusion would fall with them. The last words
merely repeat the mistakes before pointed out, which ignore the doctrine of the gradual
development of Christianity until to all is vouchsafed the opportunity of refusing the evil
and of choosing the good.
The only answer from the recipient of these letters is the following
fragment of verse, which may be taken as a clue to the spirit of the advice which elicited
them:—
Alone, my Byron, on Shelfordian plains, For thee I meditate my careless strains; Roam, undisturb’d, in free-born thought along, And yield a day to friendship and to song. Say, whence thy doubt of God’s o’er-ruling pow’r, Thou troubled dreamer of a darksome hour? Is it that, dimly through this veil of sin, The ray of virtue glimmers from within? Is it that, soaring to sublimer things, The flight of mind betrays her feeble wings? But whence thy right, ephemeral phantom whence, To purer instinct or to loftier sense? Would Reason prompt thee louder to complain If lower link’d in being’s general chain? She prompts not now thy discontented voice, Nor bids thee choose where Heaven denies a choice. What, if surrounded by a drearier shade, Or by thy fate, or by thy folly made, No beam of love illumed thy lonely path, But, wandering on, an outcast child of wrath, Without a guide, a father, or a friend, Thy melancholy progress met its end, Lost in the shoreless floods of silent space, Thy time an instant, and a speck thy place. What, if imprison’d in this ruin’d earth, All traces gone of thy diviner birth, Scarce could thy shuddering nature bear its doom, The painful cradle, and the hopeless tomb! What could’st thou more than blame thy Maker’s plan, And call His Providence the foe of man? But praise Him now who gives unbounded scope For Reason’s honour, and for Virtue’s hope; Presents a world thy generous strength to try, And spreads the prize of conquest in the sky. What prize were that without an effort won? Or why reward the deed that must be done? No! to thy choice is offer’d good or ill, And conscience owns thy liberty of will. Where then begin, where end, our fruitless strife? Waive doubt awhile, and purify thy life. Ask you what land contains the lustral fount? Behold it flowing from Judæa’s mount! There weary pilgrims drink at Wisdom’s shrine, A water spotless from a source divine. There pining cares and stormy passions rest, And love dwells happy in the peaceful breast; There Mercy weeps o’er human faults forgiven, And Heav’n-born friendship reascends to Heav’n. Say, can obedience lose the promised bliss? Can Faith be groundless in a life like this? No! the cleansed heart assures the doubting eyes, And new-born hopes to new-born virtues rise. Then, ranging boundless o’er the Almighty whole In every part a God! shall strike the soul— From one vast temple shall a God! be heard; A God from Judah’s voice, a God! from Nature’s word. ....... As journeying darkly o’er the midnight heath, The seeming reign of solitude and death, Some fainting wretch pursues his fearful way; Till o’er yon lengthening ocean gleams the day— Wide and more wide the growing gold expands, A cloudless glory lightens seas and lands! Then lovely order through the prospect shines .......
The remainder of the verses is lost, but it is not difficult to complete the
simile.
If the wise counsels of this truest of friends had been allowed their
legitimate force, and had exercised a more immediate influence upon the mind of the wayward
poet, what a different future might, from that moment, have been opened to him!
Untrammelled by the weaknesses of that lower nature which bound him down to earth, his
mighty genius would have soared to loftier flights; unfettered by the chains of a morbid
self-consciousness, his noble, generous nature would have found scope for its energies in
the exercise of the purest philanthropy. That marvellous combination of rank, and talent,
and beauty, which made him alternately the idol and the scapegoat of his age, if tempered
and guided by religious discipline, would have enabled him to confer incalculable benefits
upon his fellow men. All that is grandest and noblest in human nature would henceforth have
been inseparably associated with the name of Byron.
It is melancholy, indeed, to turn from the contemplation of such glorious
possibilities to the strange reality of mingled faith and doubt which bore such bitter
fruit; lamentable, however deeply instructive, to look back upon the perilous rocks and
subtly-shifting quicksands upon which so beautiful a bark was wrecked almost at the outset
of its voyage.
Newstead Abbey: September 13, 1811.
My dear Hodgson,—I thank you for your song, or, rather, your two
songs—your new song on love, and your old song on
religion. I admire the first
sincerely, and in turn call upon you to admire the
following on Anacreon Moore’s new
operatic farce,1 or farcical opera—call it which
you will:— Good plays are scarce, So Moore writes farce; Is fame like his so brittle? We knew before That ‘Little’s’
Moore, But now ’tis
Moore that’s Little. I won’t dispute with you on the arcana of your new calling; they are
bagatelles, like the King of Poland’s rosary. One remark, and I have
done: the basis of your religion is injustice; the Son of God, the pure, the immaculate, the innocent, is
sacrificed for the guilty. This proves His heroism; but no more does away man’s
guilt than a schoolboy’s volunteering to be flogged for another would
exculpate the dunce from negligence, or preserve him from the rod. You degrade
the Creator, in the first place, by making Him a begetter of
1 The M.P.; or, The Blue Stocking,
which, after having been acted for a few nights, disappeared finally
from the stage.
children; and in the next you
convert Him into a tyrant over an immaculate and injured Being, who is sent
into existence to suffer death for the benefit of some millions of scoundrels,
who, after all, seem as likely to be damned as ever. As to miracles, I agree
with Hume that it is more probable men should lie or be
deceived, than that things out of the course of
nature should so happen. Mahomet wrought
miracles, Brothers the prophet had proselytes, and so would Breslau, the conjurer, had he lived in the time of Tiberius.
Besides, I trust that God is not a Jew, but the God of all
mankind; and, as you allow that a virtuous Gentile may be saved, you do away
the necessity of being a Jew or a Christian.
I do not believe in any revealed religion, because no
religion is revealed; and if it pleases the Church to damn me for not allowing
a non-entity, I throw myself on the mercy of the
‘Great First Cause, least understood,’
who must do what is most proper; though I conceive He never made anything to be
tortured in another life, whatever it may in this. I will neither read pro nor con. God would have made
His will known without books, considering how very few could read them when
Jesus of Nazareth lived, had it been His pleasure to
ratify any peculiar mode of worship. As to your immortality, if people are to
live, why die? And our carcases, which are to rise again, are they worth
raising? I hope, if mine is, that I shall have a better pair
of legs than I have moved on these two-and-twenty years, or I shall be
sadly behind in the squeeze into Paradise. Did you ever read ‘Malthus on Population?’
If he be right, war and pestilence are our best friends, to save us from being
eaten alive, in this ‘best of all possible worlds.’
I will write, read, and think no more; indeed, I do not wish
to shock your prejudices by saying all I do think. Let us make the most of
life, and leave dreams to Emanuel
Swedenborg.
Now to dreams of another genus—poesies. I like your
song much; but I will say no more, for fear you should think I wanted to coax
you into approbation of my past, present, or future acrostics. I shall not be
at Cambridge before the middle of October; but, when I go, I should certes like
to see you there before you are dubbed a deacon. Write to me, and I will
rejoin.
Yours ever, Byron.
In this second letter, the first point to be noticed is that the word ‘injustice’ is
here used simply from a human point of view; and in discussing subjects which, from the
very fact that they are still subjects of discussion, are proved to be beyond the
comprehension of man’s finite intelligence, it is important that we lose not sight of
the evident probability that God has fuller, wider notions of justice than man, by the
circumstances of his constitution, can possibly entertain; that His judgments are
inscrutable, and His ways past finding out. Again, the voluntary character of the sacrifice
of Him, who took upon Him our nature, is virtually ignored; while the tangible and visible
effects of Christianity throughout the world are also completely set aside or forgotten.
The great subject of miracles is dismissed in so summary a manner as to
render a distinct refutation of the opinion definitely expressed impossible, without an
exhaustive inquiry into the credibility of witnesses such as is to be found in Paley’s ‘Evidences;’ or a comprehensive consideration of the
whole subject of God’s omnipotence, and consequent power to change for a specific and
unique purpose the laws which He has made, such as is amply afforded by Butler’s ‘Analogy.’
To the truism that God is the God of all man-kind, it
may be answered that the doctrines of Christianity are in no way really antagonistic to
such a notion; but that, as was noticed in answer to a similar statement in the former
letter, only those are condemned who persistently reject a religion which not only promises
present and future happiness, but which is proved by constant experience to have a power to
guide and assist its faithful adherents to happy and honourable lives, and to assure them
of calm and peaceful deaths. In the next place, when it is asserted that no religion is
revealed, it is necessary to inquire what is the exact sense in which the word is used, and
to bear in mind the fact that the natural processes, the results of which we daily see and
feel, are certainly not clearly revealed to us; that revelation, however applied, is a
relative term, and involves questions of degree. For that the world in which we live and
move and have our being is full of hidden mysteries, will hardly be denied even by those
who are most sceptical on the subject of revealed religion. And the positive fact that
prayer is constantly answered is not more miraculous or less mysterious than many of the
natural events by which we are surrounded, but for which we cannot fully account. Nor is it
more consistent with the idea of God’s merciful justice to suppose that He would allow His creatures to be deceived into
the false belief that they will be punished hereafter, than to imagine Him determined to
punish hereafter those who resolutely resist His will, and often go unpunished here. But
the words which follow may fairly be considered to contain the clue to much which precedes
them. ‘I will read neither pro nor con.’ Does not this plainly point to the predetermined resolve of one whose
wish was father to his thought, and who preferred to make his principles tally with his
practice, rather than to adopt such religious tenets as would inevitably lead to the
necessity of an unwelcome discipline of life.
That God did make His will known without books, as well as through them, is
proved by the unprecedented and unparalleled effects of the Apostles’ teaching, and
to the widespread influences of oral instructions and traditions throughout the early ages
of the Church’s history.
The painfully irreverent allusion to the doctrine of the resurrection of the
body is an instance of the determination (so characteristic of its writer) to press
forcibly to their natural conclusion any opinions which arrested his attention. But it is
strange that he should have altogether overlooked the Christian belief that the natural
body which dies is raised a spiritual body; that there are bodies
terrestrial and bodies celestial.
In these days of universal inquiry and rigid criticism, the consideration of
the religious sentiments of so powerful a thinker as Byron, if conducted in a conscientious spirit, cannot be devoid of useful
interest. For the necessary conviction which such a consideration will inculcate is
obviously this: that if such a mind could find no stronger arguments than these in favour
of scepticism, Christianity, however it might suffer temporarily from the insensibility of
its opponents, would be in no danger of ultimate suppression even if it depended solely
upon human agencies for its support; while the fatal influences of such self-reliant
speculations are strikingly exemplified in the hapless life and premature death of the
greatest poet of his age.
CHAPTER X. LETTERS FROM BYRON—MEETING AT
CAMBRIDGE—PREVENTION BY HODGSON OF DUEL BETWEEN
BYRON AND MOORE—VISIT TO
NEWSTEAD—MORE LETTERS. 1811-12.
A week after the last of the letters in the last chapter was
written, Byron writes to Dallas: ‘I have brought you and my friend Juvenal Hodgson on my back, on the score of
revelation. You are fervent, but he is quite glowing. I honour and thank you both but
am convinced by neither,’ &c.; and four days later to
Hodgson himself.
Newstead Abbey: September 25, 1811.
My dear Hodgson,—I fear that before the latest of October or the
first of November, I shall hardly be able to make Cambridge. My everlasting
agent puts off his coming like the
accomplishment of a prophecy. However, finding me growing serious he hath
promised to be here on Thursday, and about Monday we shall
remove to Rochdale. I have only to give discharges to the tenantry here (it
seems the poor creatures must be raised, though I wish it was not necessary)
and arrange the receipt of sums, and the liquidation of some debts, and I shall
be ready to enter upon new subjects of vexation. I intend to visit you in
Granta, and hope to prevail on you to accompany me here or there or anywhere.
My tortoises (all Athenians), my hedgehog, my mastiff, are all
purely. The tortoises lay eggs, and I have hired a hen to hatch them. I am
writing notes for my quarto1
(Murray would have it a quarto), and
Hobhouse is writing text for his quarto; if you call on Murray
or Cawthorn you will hear news of
either. I have attacked De Pauw,
Thornton, Lord Elgin, Spain, Portugal, the ‘Edinburgh Review,’ travellers, painters,
antiquarians and others, so you see what a dish of sour crout controversy I
shall prepare for myself. It would not answer for me to give way, now; as I was
forced into bitterness at the beginning, I will go through to the last.
‘Væ Victis.’ If I fall, I shall fall
gloriously, fighting against a host.
Felicissima Notte a Voss. Signoria. B.
1Childe
Harold.
Hodgson, deeply distressed at the tone of these last
letters—a tone which he knew to be partly real and partly assumed, and earnestly
desirous that his friend should share the happiness which his own kindly and contented
disposition enabled him to enjoy—wrote some verses in a cheerful and joyous strain,
exhorting Byron to look at the brighter side of life,
and to banish care. Byron immediately responded in those eminently
characteristic and now celebrated lines1 in which he alludes to his
early disappointment in love as the source of all his subsequent sorrow. When in 1829
Hodgson sent these verses to Moore, for insertion in the ‘Life,’ which was then being compiled, he carefully
drew his pen through the concluding lines, and wrote below them, ‘From hence to
the end to be left out as agreed with Moore. F. H.’ This
stipulation, however, Moore, as in many other cases, entirely
disregarded. The lines marked for omission are these:— But if, in some succeeding year, When Britain’s ‘May is in the sere,’ Thou hear’st of one whose deepening crimes Suit with the sablest of the times; Of one, whom love nor pity sways, Nor hope of fame, nor good men’s praise;
1Epistle to a Friend.
One, who in stern ambition’s pride, Perchance not blood shall turn aside; One rank’d in some recording page With the worst anarchs of the age; Him wilt thou know, and, knowing,
pause, Nor with the effect forget the cause. In the margin of the original copy Hodgson
writes:—‘N.B. The poor dear soul meant nothing of this. F. H.’
This note speaks volumes; coming as it does from one who knew the poet so
intimately, and who understood the strangely blended contrasts of his character perhaps
better than any other one of his friends. It has often been remarked that Byron loved to identify himself with ‘the dark
sublime he drew.’ There can be no stronger confirmation of the fact than
these few words, which go far to dispel the many misunderstandings and illusions by which
his great name has so long been surrounded.
Two days later he sent a long letter to Hodgson, published by Moore, in
which he writes: ‘I don’t know that I shan’t end with insanity, for I
want a method in arranging my thoughts that perplexes me strangely; but this looks more
like silliness than madness, as Scrope Davies
would facetiously remark in his consoling manner. I must try the hartshorn of your
company.’ And again at the end: ‘Write and send me your “Love Song”—but I want
paulò majora from you. Make a
dash before you are a deacon, and try a dry publisher. Yours
always, B.’
The dry allusion is to Mr. Payne, of
the firm of Payne & Mackinlay, who had published
Hodgson’s ‘Juvenal.’ Payne had lately
committed suicide by drowning himself in the Paddington Canal.
It was at the end of this month (October) that Byron paid his promised visit to Cambridge, where many matters, religious
and poetical, were doubtless discussed in detail by the friends. During this visit a letter
from Moore (the first which
Byron ever received from him) was forwarded from Newstead, calling
his attention to a former letter written from Dublin on January 1, 1810, in which an
explanation was required of certain expressions used by Byron in
‘English Bards,’ with
reference to Moore’s ‘leadless’ and therefore
bloodless duel with Jeffrey at Chalk Farm; and,
failing such explanation, satisfaction was demanded.
This former letter, having been despatched soon after Lord Byron’s departure from England, was placed by the friend to whom
Moore had entrusted it, in Hodgson’s hands. Having been made aware, by the
manner of its delivery, of the nature of this letter, and feeling sure that his
friend’s impetuous and fiery disposition would at once lead him
to consider that it constituted a direct challenge to fight a duel,
Hodgson, on his own responsibility, determined to suppress it
until the feeling of irritation which occasioned it should have been obliterated by time.
But this second letter of Moore’s placed him in an apparently
inextricable dilemma. For he had already, as in duty bound, reminded
Byron in London on his return, that he had such a letter in his
possession; of which Byron’s sudden summons to Newstead had
enabled him still further to postpone the delivery. Now they were together again and
Moore repeated his complaints, though in a somewhat modified form,
and requested a further explanation of the delay which had occurred in the reply to his
first letter. Still Hodgson somehow contrived to keep it back until
continued correspondence with Moore turned enmity into friendship; its
delivery became unnecessary; and it was returned in statu
quo to the writer, at his own suggestion. Thus England was spared
the spectacle of a duel between Moore and Byron.
Thus a catastrophe was averted which might have resulted fatally to one or both of two of
the greatest poets of their time; a disaster by which the world of literature would have
been robbed of some of its most priceless treasures. It is impossible to overestimate the
consummate tact and firmness displayed by
Hodgson in this most difficult and delicate episode of peacemaking
diplomacy.
Moore’s letter was written on the 30th
October. A fortnight later Byron wrote from London to
Hodgson at Cambridge, laconically, but in a very
large hand underlined, ‘Send a certain letter. B.’; and after two days, having
received no answer, he wrote again:—
8 St. James’s Street: November 17, 1811.
Dear Hodgson,—I
have been waiting for the letter, which was to be sent
by you immediately, and must again jog your memory on
the subject. I have heard from Hobhouse,
who has at last sent more copy to Cawthorn for his ‘Travels.’ I franked an enormous
cover for you yesterday, seemingly to convey at least twelve cantos on any
given subject. I fear the aspect of it was too epic for
the post. From this and other coincidences I augur a publication on your part,
but what or when, or how much, you must disclose immediately.
I don’t know what to say about coming down to Cambridge
at present, but live in hopes. I am so completely superannuated there, and
besides feel it something brazen in me to wear my magisterial habit, after all
my buffooneries, that I hardly think I shall venture again. And being now an
‘αριστον
μεν ύδωρ’ disciple I won’t come
within wine-shot of such determined topers as your collegiates. I have not yet
subscribed to Bowen. I mean to cut Harrow ‘enim unquam’ as somebody classically said for a farewell sentence. I am
superannuated there too, and, in short, as old at twenty-three as many men at
seventy.
Do write and send this letter that hath been so long in your
custody. It is of importance that M.
should be certain I never received it, if it be his. Are
you drowned that I have never heard from you, or are you fallen into a fit of
perplexity? Cawthorn has declined, and
the MS. is returned to him. This is all at present from yours in the faith,
ΜΠΑΙΡΩΝ.
The conclusion of the next letter proves that Hodgson’s considerate counsel on religious subjects had, at all
events, greater influence with its recipient than he was at present prepared to admit. The
words ‘I deny nothing’ point to an altered frame of mind; and universal doubt,
however unsatisfactory, is a decided improvement upon absolute unbelief.
8 St. James’s Street: December 4, 1811.
My dear Hodgson,—I have seen Miller, who will see Bland, but I have no great hopes of his obtaining the translation1 from
the crowd of candidates. Yesterday I wrote to Harness, who will probably tell you what I said on the subject.
Hobhouse has sent me my Romaic MSS.,
and I shall require your aid in correcting the press, as your Greek eye is more
correct than mine. But these will not come to type this month, I dare say. I
have put some soft lines on ye Scotch in the ‘Curse of Minerva,’ take them: Yet Caledonia claims some native worth, &c. If you are not content now, I must say with the Irish drummer to the
deserter who called out, ‘Flog high, flog low’—‘The
de’il burn ye, there’s no pleasing you, flog where one will.’
I have read Watson to Gibbon. He proves nothing, so I am where I was, verging
towards Spinoza; and yet it is a gloomy
creed, and I want a better, but there is something pagan in me that I cannot
shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything. The post brings me
to a conclusion. Bland has just been
here.
Yours ever, Bn.
1 The translation of Charlemagne, an epic poem
by Prince Lucien Bonaparte, afterwards undertaken by
Francis Hodgson conjointly with Samuel Butler, Head-master of Shrewsbury, and
subsequently Bishop of Lichfield.
In the next letter, dated London, December 8, 1811, and partly published by
Moore, Byron
writes:—
I sent you a sad ‘Tale of Three
Friars’ the other day, and now take a dose in another style. I wrote it a day or two
ago, on hearing a song of former days:— Away, away, ye notes of woe, etc.
I have gotten a book by Sir W.
Drummond (printed but not published) entitled ‘Œdipus Judaicus,’
in which he attempts to prove the greater part of the Old Testament an
allegory, particularly Genesis and Joshua. He professes himself a theist in the
preface, and handles the literal interpretation very roughly. I wish you could
see it. Mr. Ward has lent it to me, and I
confess to me it is worth fifty Watsons.
You and Harness must fix on the time for your visit to Newstead. . . .
Master William Harness and I have
recommenced a most fiery correspondence; I like him as Euripides liked Agatho, or
Darby admired Joan, as much for the past as the present.
In the postscript of the next letter he adds: ‘I only wait for your
answer to fix our meeting.’ A few days later this meeting took place at Newstead,
between Byron, Harness, and Hodgson. Moore, who had
also been invited, was unable to come. Harness left a most interesting
sketch1 of his visit, in which the allusions to
Hodgson are so pointed that they can hardly be omitted from a
memoir of his life.
When Byron returned, with the MS. of
the first two cantos of ‘Childe
Harold’ in his portmanteau, I paid him a visit at Newstead.2 It was Winter—dark, dreary weather—the snow upon
the ground; and a straggling, gloomy, depressive, partially-inhabited place the Abbey
was. Those rooms, however, which had been fitted up for residence were so comfortably
appointed, glowing with crimson hangings, and cheerful with capacious fires, that one
soon lost the melancholy feeling of being domiciled in the wing of an extensive ruin.
Many tales are related or fabled of the orgies which, in the poet’s early youth,
had made clamorous these ancient halls of the Byrons. I can only
say that nothing in the shape of riot or excess occurred when I was there. The only
other visitor was Dr. Hodgson,3 the translator of ‘Juvenal,’ and
1 Quoted by Mr.
L’Estrange in his Literary Life of the Rev. Wm.
Harness.
2 It will be observed that this visit took place
several months after Byron’s return.
3 This is a mistake. Hodgson, at this time, was not even ordained, and never took
the Doctor’s degree, even when Provost of Eton.
nothing could be more quiet and regular than the course of our
days. Byron was retouching, as the sheets passed
through the press, the stanzas of ‘Childe
Harold.’ Hodgson was at work in getting out the
ensuing number of the ‘Monthly
Review,’ of which he was principal editor. I was reading for my degree.
When we met, our general talk was of poets and poetry—of who could or who could
not write; but it occasionally rose into very serious discussions on religion.
Byron, from his early education in Scotland, had been taught
to identify the principles of Christianity with the extreme dogmas of Calvinism. His
mind had thus imbibed a most miserable prejudice, which appeared to be the only1 obstacle to his hearty acceptance of the Gospel. Of this error
we were most anxious to disabuse him. The chief weight of the argument rested with
Hodgson, who was older, a good deal, than myself. I cannot
even now—at a distance of more than fifty years—recall those conversations
without a deep feeling of admiration for the judicious zeal and affectionate
earnestness (often speaking with tears in his eyes) which Dr.
Hodgson evinced in his advocacy of the
1 It will be seen from the foregoing letters that this
is hardly a complete statement of the case.
truth. The only difference, except
perhaps in the subjects talked about, between our life at Newstead Abbey and that of
the great families around us, was the hours we kept. It was, as I have said, winter,
and the days were cold; and, as nothing tempted us to rise early, we got up late. This
flung the routine of the day rather backward, and we did not go early to bed. My visit
to Newstead lasted about three weeks, when I returned to Cambridge to take my degree.
About the middle of the next month, January 1812, Hodgson also returned to Cambridge, and Byron went to London to his old
quarters in St. James’s Street. Several letters passed between them, but not upon
subjects of public interest. Byron was again possessed
by a feeling of the deepest melancholy, and seems to have recurred to his old sorrow, the
early disappointment in love, which he appears to have attributed partly to that slight
physical infirmity on which he often dwelt so painfully. He writes to
Hodgson with reference to another object of affection: ‘I
do not blame her, but my own vanity in fancying that such a thing as I am could ever be
beloved.’ He also recurred to the numerous deaths of friends which had
rendered his return to England so melancholy, and especially that of
Eddlestone, and wrote: ‘There is one
consolation in Death—where he sets his seal the impression can neither be melted
nor broken, but endureth for ever. I almost rejoice when one I love dies young, for I
could never bear to see them old or altered.’ He was, moreover, harassed with
business and lawyers, whom he describes as being in a ‘pestilent hurry all about
affidavits.’ Hodgson again endeavoured to cheer him, and to
divert his thoughts into a different channel by inducing him to exert his powers in
Parliament. This advice was not disregarded, an ambition of oratorical distinction was
aroused, and efforts were made towards its attainment by careful preparation. The first
intimation of the existence of this new interest occurs in a letter to
Hodgson dated 8 St. James’s Street, February 1, 1812:—
I am rather unwell with a vile cold, caught in the House of
Lords last night. Lord Sligo and myself,
being tired, paired off, being of opposite sides, so
that nothing was gained or lost by our votes. I did not
speak; but I might as well, for nothing could have been inferior to (those who
did). The Catholic Question comes on this month, and per-haps I may then commence. I must
‘screw my courage to the sticking place, and we’ll not fail.’
Yours ever, B.
While the preparation for the great speech on the Frame-breaking Bill was
going on, and with ‘Childe
Harold’ in the press, Byron yet found time
for the following humorous and good-natured appeal in behalf of a friend and aspiring
author:—
London: February 21, 1812.
My dear Hodgson,—There is a book entituled ‘Galt, his Travels in ye Archipelago,’
daintily printed by Cadell and Davies, ye which I could desiderate might be
criticised by you, inasmuch as ye author is a well-respected esquire of mine
acquaintance, but I fear will meet with little mercy as a writer, unless a
friend passeth judgment. Truth to say, ye boke is ye boke of a cock-brained
man, and is full of devices crude and conceitede, but peradventure for my sake
this grace may be vouchsafed unto him. Review him myself I can not, will not,
and if you are likewize hard of heart, woe unto ye boke, ye which is a comely
quarto.
Now then! I have no objection to review if it pleases Griffiths
to send books, or rather you, for you know the sort of things I like to play
with. You will find what I say very serious as to my intentions. I have every
reason to induce me to return to Ionia. Believe me,
Yours always, B.
The earliest, and indeed the only original, account of his first and most
famous speech, was sent to Hodgson, and is published
by Moore, with the exception of this sentence,
‘I hire myself unto Griffiths, and my
poesy comes out on Saturday.’ Griffiths was the editor
of the ‘Monthly,’ but there is no
record of any contribution to it from Byron, and he
afterwards refused to review at all.
The poesy thus unostentatiously mentioned was the immortal ‘Childe Harold;’ and immediately after
its publication, Byron, who, as he concisely puts it,
‘woke up one morning and found himself famous,’ now plunged into the
vortex of London society, which at once paid him that unprecedented homage, amounting
almost to idolatry, which was sustained for a time through the combined influences of his
rank and genius, as well as by the irresistible charms of his manner and appearance.
Hodgson remained quietly at Cambridge, lecturing, reviewing, and maintaining
a constant correspondence with his numerous friends. He occasionally went to London, and
never without visiting and conversing with Lord Byron.
CHAPTER XI. ORIGIN OF
BLAND’S’ANTHOLOGY’—HODGSON’S
CONTRIBUTIONS TO IT—SKETCH OF BLAND’S LIFE AND PASSAGES
FROM HIS LETTERS. 1812.
The ‘Anthology,’ to which Hodgson made
considerable contributions, was republished in a revised form in the year 1812. This
celebrated work first appeared in 1806, Bland and
Merivale being its principal editors, and was
soon greeted with the admiration which it so fully deserved. Byron, in one of his letters to Hodgson, says that he
‘always bewailed its absence’ during his Grecian travels, and in his Satire “he thus apostrophises its authors:— And you associate bards! who snatch’d to light Those gems too long withheld from modern sight; Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath, Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe, And all their renovated fragrance flung To grace the beauties of your native tongue. Some years after Bland’s death a proposal was made by some of his friends to write a memoir of his life,
and Merivale then gave the following account of the origin of their
joint work:—
I can hardly say that my acquaintance with Bland commenced so early as during our residence at college, but I was
accidentally thrown into his company two or three times in the course of that period;
once, in particular, I well remember, in a walking party to Wimpole, the seat of
Lord Hardwicke, consisting, besides himself and
myself, of Harry Drury, Twiss (now Dr. Twiss), the
present Lord Chancellor (then Charles Pepys), and I
forget who else. I remember little respecting it except that we were all very
light-hearted and merry, and poor Bland conspicuous for that
peculiar species of whim and extravaganza which procured for him in after times, among
the dramatis personæ of a proposed burletta by our friend
(now Archdeacon) Hodgson on the model of
Fielding’sCovent Garden tragedy, the appropriate designation
of ‘Don Hyperbole.’ But our intimacy
must be referred for its commencement to the time when, after leaving college, he
became settled as an assistant-master at Harrow, where I was a frequent visitor, and
when (principally under Harry Drury’s auspices) a social club, or circle, was early formed, of which,
besides us three, Denman (now Lord Chief Justice),
Hodgson (now Archdeacon of Derby), Walford (solicitor to the Customs), Paley (son of Archdeacon Paley,
and a brother collegian of Bland at Pembroke—long since,
alas! taken from us), Pepys, and Shadwell1, and a few more, less closely united
with us in youthful sport and frolic, may be enumerated as members. In the compass of a
very few years marriage and the consequent accession of domestic and professional cares
and pursuits, in a great degree operated as the dissolution of our society, but not of
our mutual regard and friendship. Several bonds of union still subsisted among us, and,
with regard to some at least of our fraternity, a similarity of taste in literature and
poetry constituted by no means the weakest of them.
It so happened that both Bland and
myself, while at college, though then unknown to each other, had committed divers sins
of the poetical sort in attempted translations from the Greek minor poets and
epigrammatists. When our friendship commenced at Harrow, we soon compared
notes—thence proceeded to mutual exten-
1Launcelot
Shadwell, Vice-Chancellor.
sion of our
collections—and finally decided to launch on the perilous undertaking of joint
authorship, under the liberal patronage of that great Mæcenas of literature,
Richard Phillips (now Sir
Richard), publisher of the ‘Monthly Magazine.’ It was, accordingly, in that very respectable
miscellany that we started on our career as ‘brother bards,’ on the 1st of
March, 1805, in a paper headed with the title ‘Epigrams, Fragments, and Fugitive
Pieces from the Greek,’ to which was subjoined the signature ‘Narva,’ an appellative borrowed (as I well
remember) from a poem of Chatterton’s,
which, euphoniæ gratiâ, for I think
it possessed no other merit, was just then constantly in the mouth of our friend
Hodgson, who graciously permitted the name
to be transferred to ourselves. This first and the three or four succeeding numbers
comprised the greater part of the materials from which Bland
composed the preface to our subsequent volume, published in 1806, entitled ‘Translations, chiefly from the Greek
Anthology, with Tales and Miscellaneous Poems’; and it was not long
before our youthful senses were regaled with the tribute of praise from unknown
writers.
About this time Denman wrote to Hodgsonà propos of the
‘Anthology’: —
I am infinitely too much flattered by your request to hesitate a moment
about complying with it, though I sincerely think the compositions will add no value to
your publication, and would do no credit to their author, if he was known. I will beg,
therefore, that you will not mention his name to any but those who already know it. The
trouble of revising will, I fear, be greater than you seem to anticipate; but most
especially I desire that if your opinion of them should change on a subsequent perusal,
you will not think it necessary to print them, in consequence of your present
application. Most sincerely do I hope that you will keep your promise of being with us
more frequently when you are in town.
Two of the poems thus modestly referred to by their author were two
translations of the Ode on the Athenian Patriots, Harmodius and
Aristogiton, by Callistratus (Scol. 7, I,
155). The version beginning with the words ‘In myrtle my sword will I
wreathe,’ is mentioned by Byron in a note1 to ‘Childe
Harold,’ as the best English translation.
Two very beautiful fragments by Hodgson, on a pipe in the Temple of Venus, and on a laurel beside
1 Canto iii. stanza 20.
a fountain, are translated into Latin elegiacs by
Dr. Kennedy in the ‘Sabrinæ Corolla.’
It is strange that so exquisite a collection of classical gems as the
‘Anthology’ should have been so
long allowed to remain out of print.
Of its talented but eccentric editor, Robert
Bland, the surviving notices are scanty. He was appointed to a chaplaincy at
Amsterdam, whence he returned to his native land in 1811, after having travelled in
disguise through a considerable part of the Continent, during the most perilous period of
the French supremacy. On his return he obtained, through the influence of his friends, a
desirable curacy at Kenilworth, where he eked out a slender income by the precarious
occupation of taking pupils, and died from breaking a blood-vessel in 1825, at the early
age of 45. Besides the ‘Anthology’ he published several original poems, the best of which were
‘Edwy and Elgiva,’ and the
‘Four Slaves of
Cythera.’
Some extracts from his correspondence are not without interest, both from
the date at which they were written, and for the humorous extravagances with which they
abound. They are addressed to Merivale, and the
first is dated August 9, 1805, St. Alban’s Street,1
Wednesday, midnight.
1 The residence of his father, Dr.
Bland, the eminent physician.
Many and the most sincere thanks for your very kind letter. I
really am obliged to you for being so happy as you mention, although I think
you might have been so without endeavouring to make me envious. And so you wish
me to follow your example.1 If any person would
accommodate me with the trifling sum of a cool £10,000, I would really do
so. But if you only reflect on the treasures contained in my table drawer, you
might find 1,000 pounds worth of reasons for remaining as I am—stupid,
flat, dull and solitary. . . . You will excuse the gloom of this letter, when
you consider the solemn hour at which I write, and the more so as you know that
I seldom, if ever, write to entertain others, but only when I am a burthen to
myself, and wish to lay part of the load on some one else. But, what is the
best excuse of all, I have this evening returned to London from
———, where I have been leading the life of a god for these
five days. On Friday ———’s birthday, concert, fire and
water works, ball, supper; so that Friday was certainly not so bad; though, to
my mind, all the squibs and crackers and rockets and
what-d’ye-call-’ems, produced by gunpowder, together with set
concerts, suppers, balls, and nicknackeries, are not worth this
1Merivale had lately married.
pinch of snuff. No, sir. It was
Saturday, passed on the lawn, with a soft, sick, languid, and amiable headache,
charmed away by a late breakfast and vocal music (particularly by hearing
myself sing),1 dance on the green, dinner, music, dance
again, singing again till two in the morning, and all in a private family
party—it was this, continued for three or four days, that did the
business, and made me what I am—gloomy, and discontented. Mrs.
——— recited several beautiful scraps of poems; I retaliated
with your ‘Clarissa,’ your ‘O’er the Smooth Main,’ and Hodgson’s ‘Moderate Wishes.’ The sensation was so great, that, drunk as
I was with pleasure at hearing my friends applauded, I was on the verge of
reciting something of my own and should have done so—but (luckily) I
forgot everything, and so was saved the disgrace of being hissed off the stage.
The lines of my own which I was near venturing, were the description of the
wood, and hags that haunted it, in ‘Edwy and Elgiva,’ which are the best
lines I have written. Very luckily I forgot the second verse, and consequently
could not begin the first with any propriety. There is a charm, my dear
Merry, in that house, which sets a
man at ease in a moment. No vul-
1 All his contemporaries agreed in admiring his
singing.
garity, no quizzing, but the most elegant persons with the
most elegant manners—music the most celestial, and, as one cannot get
higher than celestial, manners the most engaging. Had the whole business of
their lives been to please, and they had studied their profession from their
births, they could not have succeeded better. And here I must not omit
mentioning that flattery is one source of pleasure. None of your stiff, awkward
compliments that break the teeth of the speaker, and make the hearer look like
a fool; but kind, good-natured hints of approbation, that encourage people to
talk, to amuse and be amused. I really cannot fix my eye upon any five days
that have been so varied with all manner of delights. I would change the
subject which, however interesting to myself, can have no great share of
interest to you, only, as you talked of nothing but yourself (and I like you for it), do let me talk of
———. Then we dined in a wood—pretty
thought!—‘our seat the turf, our canopy the sky.’
All the oreads, dryads, and naiads were delighted with our music.
‘Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, peeping from out their alleys
green.’ The evening passed in reading, recitation, music, supping
(pro formâ—that is to say, as an excuse
for assembling round a table, rather than for the sake of gross eating and drinking). After
singing and all the etceteras, we went to our repose, each highly satisfied
with the day, and with the quota of entertainment that each had contributed.
The poet sought his pillow, delighted and perfectly satisfied with his own bad
verses; the rebus, riddle, and conundrum-makers with their subtleties; the
explainers of the same with their acuteness; the vocal performers with their
voices; the instrumental with their fingers; and, most of all,
——— by the applauses (loud and frequent) which remunerated
him for making faces and playing the buffoon. At breakfast this morning, a
flash or two, a recitation, and a remark or two, and the charm was to be
dissolved, was to be exchanged for—London.
Amsterdam: June 6, 1810.
Any other man, my dear Merivale, but myself would have been in England many weeks ago.
No passport has arrived from Paris, and friends by the dozen are lost in wonder
that I should wish to trust myself in the heart of our enemies when I can so
easily return to my own country. . . . I have a natural antipathy to
Trade—to what is trading, has been trading, or shall or will be trading.
And so, having said that the country of Batavia—
Hollow-land, Holland—is a land very extraordinary—that to see a
people give birth to their country, instead of a country giving birth to the
people, is very odd and very creditable to the above people—that the
cities of Amsterdam, Hague, Rotterdam, with many others, are the most this,
that, and t’other—that their inhabitants are respectable
fair-dealing men, etc.—most gladly would I bid them adieu for ever, go to
some bastardly spot of Provence, and vintage-think at my ease among these
modern Babylonians—for such, no doubt, the whole French nation
are—look at Faber else, and the Prophecies which are literally fulfilling
before our faces. This being the case, as it really is, I shall follow the
advice of a French gentleman, who has been my friend in everything, and through
whom I have refrained from trusting myself as far as Brussels without my
viaticum—by remaining here about ten days longer,
in the almost certainty of getting my passport; or, should it fail, with the
resolution to return among you—a resolution not of my dictation, but that
of necessity.
You have often scoffed and jeered and otherwise maltreated me
for my love of harmony—witness that celestial poem, the ‘Four Slaves’ which I
hold to be pure music; that is, English music. Well, sir, this unfortunate love, with a
predilection for everything sunny and sweet, has prevented me from learning one
word of German; so that, although one half of the superior commonalty here are
Germans, I have not even had the curiosity to go once to their theatre.
. . . . The Germans are, doubtless, personally speaking, what
the French call faits à peindre. Their regiments are really
beautiful, and the young men of that nation, who are to be found everywhere,
are of an exterior superior to any I have ever seen. They are generally
accomplished in some two or three living languages, which they speak equally
well with the natives. They are all musicians—they ride with a grace and
agility which surprises—they are travellers—liberal in the highest
degree; but are cursed with a jargon which, when they speak it, does away with
all their excellencies. They are extremely loquacious and lively. How comes it
that the French, who literally take no pains with themselves, are so completely
their superiors? Sense, my friend; plain, natural, common understanding,
unfettered by schools and metaphysical jargon, and the balderdash of Gottingen
and other places, where such severe trials are made on weak human brains. The
next superiority is that honest and lively
prepossession for their country which the former are too liberal to entertain. A German with whom I am here very intimate has
been coaxing me to learn the language, under the promise of surprisingly
beautiful thoughts in their poetry. May be so; they resemble a surprisingly
beautiful female clad in bear-skin. Besides having made a vow to read nothing
but what is new, I have, in consequence, determined to read no poetry but my
own. Now this is but natural; and then, to say the truth, I hate poetry (always
excepting my own) to such a point that I shall manage to take a course of
French literature without the nausea of Corneille and Racine.
No: little Historical pieces, with which they abound; Memoirs, in which they
excel all other nations for two reasons: first, because the life of a French
child is more chequered with oddities than that of an English adventurer; and
secondly, because what is wanted to make Truth interesting is supplied to the
life from a quarter opposite to Truth. These reasons, I say, make their
biography delicious.
Do not talk about translations for the stage. I write no
more, except in my own calling as a clergyman; and, when I return, my whole aim
will be to gain something like an
establishment in the Church. My appointment here has done for me great and
unexpected things. The sinecure of £100 per annum, Merivale, is great for a
Bland, or the son of a Bland.
Besides, I have once been taken by the hand by Mr.
Henry Hope, and led by him to a Bishop. Now had I taken
Mr. H. H., or the said Bishop, by the hand and done
him some service, I should have nothing to expect from them, because, as
Sterne says, we get on in the world
by receiving, not by doing, favours. You plant a tree, and, because you planted
it, you water it. Thus, you see, I live in the frequent hope of being watered
by a Bishop and by the greatest merchant in the world. In short, I shall state
to the Bishop that a chapel in London (the word ‘chapel’ read in
any sense you will) would be highly acceptable; that I am utterly disengaged;
that I have all the wills in the world, and can get a character from my last
place. Thus, between ourselves, Merry, I shall not be
again the outcast that I have been. No; no more writing. Our ‘Anthology,’ our dear
‘Anthology,’ shall receive our united efforts. If you apply to
William Harness (Berkeley Street)
you may get dozens of my new pieces; Yatman has one or two; Mrs. Burnley has a great number; my sister a few; Denman (to whom I wrote two months ago a very
long letter) a few; Dr. Drury (to whom I
wrote an almost endless letter) has one or two. Have you read my ‘Origin of Snoring’? No, no more reviewing for me,
my friend. In short, no more scribbling of any kind except in the way of a
clergyman, and conjointly with you a finish to the ‘Anthology,’ and by myself a thorough revisal of my last
romance, and the lopping the buffooneries as much as possible, expunging harsh
words, and substituting softer sounds, cutting off the accursed s from every
word when it is possible without great damage to the sense; nay, getting rid of
it at all events, and writing a long and learned preface on tale-writing. No;
on no consideration will I write or translate. The drama is detestable, and,
after the French company, I shall despise our stage more and more. No, they can
do nothing. The French are born actors. Who said that Farce is unknown to the
French? I beg leave to state that from genteel comedy (which, with us, meant
that jackdaw, old Palmer, by way of
gentleman, and that rushlight, Miss
Farren, by way of a lady), that from genteel comedy in all its
shades to the broadest farce, I can institute not a moment’s comparison between the best
of our actors and the second best of theirs. Name me one single woman who
enjoys the combined advantages of youth, beauty, exact proportions, grace, a
sweet voice, various expression, naïveté, and aptness of falling into
her several characters, on the whole English stage. Name me one single man
(except Dowton) who can make you laugh
without an effort either at grimacing with his voice or his face. What was that
pompous, strutting, motherly woman, Mrs.
Siddons, out of Lady
Macbeth? Was she not always Lady
Macbeth? Mrs. Jordan was
a model of English elocution. Barring her singing (which, to my ear, was
execrable), the organs of her voice were formerly the purest I ever heard, and,
were she now young, I should consider her as the perfection of English
utterance. Her acting should be my school so far as regarded sound. But, then,
how totally deficient in grace, in all sovereign grace! True, she acted the
country-girl—and so does Mdlle. d’Angeville at
this place. Mercy! what a difference between the Hoyden rusticity of the one
and the Air de Paysanne of the other! In everything the
stage should present ornament. A drunken man may stagger, but grace should
accompany him, even to the last extremity. The rags of a
beggar should not be revolting. A deshabille—an everything—should
be raised in its value, and is raised by the French to
consequence by a certain style and tournure, of which our actors and their chubby
dumplings of spouses are wholly unconscious. The French possess another
advantage—in face. Persons who accidentally see a poor set of old
abbés living in contempt and exile in the alleys of London, fancy them to
be representatives of the French. You have, in London, no conception of youth,
when attached to the word ‘French.’ On the Continent they are now
in high feather—well-dressed, with good linen, and respected in every
place. The impressions here are, therefore, diametrically opposite to those in
London. Their face and figure are completely theatrical, and adapt themselves
with ease to their several parts.
The next letter is written from London, after his return, in the language of
the country to which he was so devotedly attached, and through which he had recently been
making so perilous a tour. It contains some witty references to a recent review of his own
writings, and those of Hodgson and Merivale, the latter of whom had just published a third canto in continuation of Beattie’s ‘Minstrel.’1 The review considered that
Merivale had improved upon Beattie, and
expressed a warm appreciation of Hodgson’s powers as a poet. The
remaining extracts, which are from letters written at Kenilworth between the years 1816 and
1820, contain the writer’s sentiments on country life in general and his own in
particular, together with fragmentary references to literary subjects of mutual interest.
Here (he writes) we have a famous garden, shady lanes and
walks in all their intricacies, and abounding in little surprises of views, a
very fair (it is even reckoned capital) neighbourhood, i.e. in a circle whose
radius is five miles. Castles entire and in ruins, good modern dwellings,
fertility, Dr. Parr, Denman’s fame in all its odour at the
Warwick Assizes, Leamington the salubrious, Coventry the manufacturing,
disgusting, dishonest, Warwick the gallant, etc., etc., etc. All which being
the case, I will come and settle myself in Baker Street, Portman Square, with
the first puff of wind that blows me £15,000. And yet, for country, this is really very good. Its only harm, or
rather vice, is that it is country.
1 Longmans, 1808.
I have seldom left a house with such regret as I did yours.
At the mercy of respectable country society whenever I sally from my own home
(which is rarely, and against my wish), I leave it to you to judge how new, how
surprising, how entertaining, improving, nay, how impossible the resources seem
to me of a London party; the anecdote, wit, good taste, right feeling,
politeness, good faith, confidence, that form the elements of London societies,
and, to complete the panegyric, the total absence of all respectability, are really my astonishment. I touched, and only
touched, on your coming to see me. I have no prospect of any other mode of
meeting. Stay. Kenilworth, and indeed the tract from Coventry to the Vale of
Evesham, is so pretty that it just touches on the beautiful without attaining
it. My house—would it were mine!—is, with its present improvements,
a very comfortable and convenient sort of mansion. Add to this, I have been
gradually amassing from five to six hundred volumes, my only, and my absolutely
necessary expense. I have much delight in contemplating my shelves, and the
utility of them I daily feel. The walks around are good enough, the people
exorbitantly rich and poor to the most degrading excess. Among the former,
several good-doing busy-bodies, the
heroes of vestries, givers of Bibles, occasionally of soup, and tolerable
be-praisers of their own munificence. Among the latter, that complete adscriptio glebæ, that utter dependence and
want of all pride and possession, which are totally incompatible with moral
feeling. The great say: ‘Give them Bibles, and more Bibles.’ I say:
‘Give each man the absolute proprietorship of his home, and a couple of
acres of land, and his pride and its concomitant virtues will return.’ In
short, will you come and see me at Easter?
Ever and sincerely yours, R. Bland.
Kenilworth: April 2, 1819.
. . . . The danger of our situation is in the necessity of
keeping a good house and equipment at all times, and of living, when finances
are low, in one equable train, and with a household mounted to correspond with
far larger receipts. As for the occupation itself—ille ego quem nôsti—with all my inequalities, have managed to forge as few
disagreeables to myself as any, the most cautious. The uncertainty of a
sequence of éléves is our bitterest anxiety. If a man must live in the country with a London
soul, why he might even as well sit at home and talk of
the darknesses of Greek, as do anything else. But of country-people—the
very poor—I do say, ‘My soul, turn from them!’
By the way, has Lord Byron
published since ‘Beppo’? Do desire the Murray, if you see him, to send me his next work on its first
coming out. Thank you for talking of ‘the ten,’ and of magazines
and other puerilities, but non eadem est ætas, non mens. I have said my say to my uttermost idea, and lo! it is as if it were
unsaid. I have so all-to-be-Greeked myself, that I am yet more stupid than of
old—an inconvenience somehow attached to the study of the finest language
in the world, and from which none, without exception, who know anything about
it, can possibly escape. . . . I was egregiously mistaken in believing that I
could lounge about London and Harrow, in the absence of my wife and family. The
truth is, persons whose existence are so monotonous, and arduous, and so
dreadfully precarious as ours, should not separate. I felt this last
year—I felt it again this—but, somehow, forgot to put it into the
form of a new observation. Here then, ‘what oft was thought’
is at length expressed for the benefit of the Universe. In a word, I will never
leave home
‘to go a pleasuring,’ as the servants say, without my wife, until I
get so rich that these sicknesses of the soul shall have subsided.
In 1820, Merivale published a
burlesque entitled ‘Richardetto,’1 and suggested by Hookham Frere’s whimsical production ‘Whistlecraft.’ Of this poetical
trifle Hodgson writes with appreciative warmth.
‘Richardetto’ I have received and read; laughed with and wondered at;
sighed over, and laid down with mingled pleasure and vexation. This is the exact truth,
but I shall not at present venture to interpret it. In this age of minute criticism,
all the little natural touches (as they are called) cannot fail
to be observed and extolled. Seriously, I think you much funnier than Whistlecraft. Bland is equally eulogistic.
Kenilworth: May 20, 1820.
My very dear Merivale,—Call me ‘ungrateful, reprobate, degraded,
spiritless outcast,’ but never say I am forgetful—for the fact is,
I have done, and still do, all in my power not to write to you or any one; and
now, if I could be certain of sleeping if I left
1 From an original poem of Nicolo Fortiguerra.
off, I would not add a word more. My opinion of the state
of things is this: you—et vos semblables, if, per hasard, there exists a semblance in the
world—have too firmly convinced yourselves of the excellence of Will Whistlecraft’sperformance, which has a
strong smack of that Italian cask, always so palatable and pleasurable to
yourself. That is, you are a man of good present and future fortunes. I, on the contrary, have much less than no fortune at
present, and see a further remove from her favours in futurity. You are immersed in the world, its gaieties, varieties,
conversations, contradictions, and acquaintances; whereas, I never clash with, or meet, any world at all, except myself at
toilette, and even that fascination begins to tire. Again, Nature may have
possibly instilled into your ——. No, no; that she has not, nor into any one’s veins, more milk of
gentleness than into mine. And so we will even keep to the difference of
fortunes, mixing in the world, admiration (even to gloating) of Italian, and
strong prepossession for Will Whistlecraft; and these said
circumstances and feelings procreated, and otherwise engendered, a better thing
than Will’s—most probably a better thing than
Fortiguerra’s—but not so
good a thing as your own brains had reel’d, spun, and woven, had your own brains really been
consulted; the language plain, easy, and of most accessible
construction—the stanza playful, and done evidently while you were
whistling—in a word, facile to excess. Much fun; but I vow you could,
without a particle more pains, do a better thing. I mean you might invent a
more amusing story; and then all would be as it should be. Have I wounded my
brother? Say no; for Heaven knows I have so few brothers in this world, that to
me it is all a wilderness—even to this late day of my existence.
A few months before poor Bland’s death, Hodgson wrote
to Merivale about him with characteristic
tenderness.
His weakness is extreme, and a return of his attack would too probably
be fatal. Who can guarantee him against it while his mind is the prey and sport of the
most unhappy feelings? Would to Heaven we could, any or all of us, devise some scheme
to aid his retreating to a softer and more congenial air, with any prospect of
employment and support!
The kind intention was too late to be of use, but a
fund was raised for the bereaved family, by contributing to which (some of them far beyond
their means) his friends paid a touching tribute to his talents and to the kindly
gentleness of his impulsive nature.
CHAPTER XII. CORRESPONDENCE WITH DRURY AND
MERIVALE—A RUGBY EXAMINATION —ASSASSINATION OF
PERCEVAL—DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, CHANCELLOR
OF CAMBRIDGE —LETTER FROM LONSDALE—‘LEAVES OF
LAUREL.’ 1812-13.
The digression in the last chapter seemed to be justified, if
not demanded, by the intimacy which long existed between Bland and Hodgson, and by the
similarity of their literary tastes. It is now time to resume the thread of correspondence
with other friends. The first of the following letters quaintly describes the exhibition of
the predecessor of the great Madame Tussaud; the
next (in verse), vividly depicts a public school examination at the commencement of the
present century; the third has reference to a matter of national interest, the
assassination of the Prime Minister in the House of Commons.
To Mr. Henry Drury.
My dear Harry,—You have doubtless
greatly enjoyed your Devonshire visit, notwithstanding your seclusion and most
natural dislike to reviewing. I feel the latter dislike as much as you can,
but, as to retirement, I confess a few friends and a cottage would be my summum bonum, could I command such blessings in the
environs of London. It is not solitude, but knowing
that you cannot have society, which is unpleasant. I will deliver your message
about a Fen Scheme to Hart when I return
to King’s. Lonsdale is there at
present, in very ill-health. . . . I write this from London, where I have come
to meet my sister1 from Kensington. I have been rambling about with her
all the morning to see sights. Miss
Linwood’s worsted pictures, in which I think she has
worsted all our painters, if you canvass her merits ever so severely. Bullock’s Museum, a farrago of birds,
beasts, snakes, shells, and butterflies; and Mrs.
Salmon’s original and royal waxworks, where, in addition
to the old curiosities (which I have not seen these twenty years, but well
remember) there is the
1 Afterwards married to her cousin the
Rev. Geo. Coke, of Lemore, in
Herefordshire.
Duchess of Brunswick, lying in state in a
room lighted with wax tapers, with two waxen bishops at her head, a waxen
Princess of Wales weeping over her, a wax
waiting-woman, and a wax emblem of Peace, strewing flowers at her feet. Two wax
mutes stand at the door of the chamber. Perhaps you have forgotten the room
upstairs. Werter and Charlotte and the pistol were being cleaned; so
was Buonaparte, and the lady who bled to
death from pricking her finger while working on a Sunday; these interesting
groups, therefore, were lost to us. But we saw Alexander, and the Queen of Darius and her waiting-maid, and
the nurse on her knees begging the life of the prince, a fine chubby child,
beside her; Alexander looks about sixty years of age, but
perhaps he has grown old apace since I last saw him; and Antony and Cleopatra certainly have lost some of their youthful charms.
But Mrs. Siddons’s sister still
begs as piteously as in life; and Mother
Shipton (saving her leg, which is out of joint, and has ceased
kicking) is as attractive as ever. Henderson in Macbeth must
have been very grand. I took him at first for the beefeater that used to stand
at the door. But, as Mr. Puff has it,
‘I would not have you too sure he is a beefeater.’ The
lady abbess and her nuns, who slit their noses and lips to
disgust the marauding Danes, and so preserve their virgin vows, are in full
perfection, only I observed that neither their noses nor lips were slit; and
the Lady Margaret of Holland is lying in bed as usual,
just having produced her 365th child, according to the prayer of the
beggar-woman whom her ladyship offended. The nun, the priest, the
waiting-woman, all wax sorrowful at her side. But perhaps you will say I am cereus in vitium, and so farewell for the present,
and
Believe me, my dear Harry, Ever yours affectionately, Francis Hodgson.
To Mrs. Coke. To Rugby, dear aunt, I set out to go down, At five on the evening of Friday from Town; From the Swan-with-two-Necks in Lad Lane I set out, And a numerous party within and without. I roof’d it myself, and it rain’d very hard, But I laugh’d through the night at the jokes of the guard. On my life, of all wits the completest and best Is the guard of that coach for original jest; For free illustration of easy remark, And all that enlivens a drive in the dark. By six in the morning to Dunchurch we came, To the sign of ‘The Cow’ with the terrible name; Here I hasten’d to bed, and slept soundly till four, Seven hours of good rest, or perchance somewhat more. Like the lark, or the nightingale rather, I rose, And put on my best suit of examining clothes. In my chariot and pair to the Doctor’s
I rode, And was kindly received at his courteous abode. That my story’s detail may be thoroughly full, I must tell you the name of the Doctor is Wooll.1Mrs. Wooll and her sister, the Doctor and I,— But to business of greater importance I fly. Our sermon on Sunday from good Mr. Heath Might have come from the lips of the Bishop of Meath; But I thought it a custom exceedingly queer That the boys in the church should cry out ‘We are here.’ For the muster-roll’s called, and I fancied, for one, That it better had anywhere else have been done. And the organ, though rightly to fiddles preferr’d, Was the loudest and harshest I ever had heard. But this I pass over—for, eager to praise, I banish all satire and spleen from my lays. Doctor Wooll and myself were in close
tête-à-tête How the Oxford Examiner could be so late, When he came in his gig, just in time to prevent My taking both places with perfect content. On Monday at nine our proceedings began (Mr. H., like myself, is a grave sort of man),
1Dr. Wooll, a
pedagogue of diminutive stature and pompous presence, was once showing an old
gentleman over the school buildings, when he came upon the room where his pupils
underwent the extreme penalty of the law. ‘This,’ exclaimed the doctor
with great magnificence, ‘is my flogging-room.’ ‘Oh,’
replied the irreverent senior, ‘then I suppose that here there must be great
cry and little Wooll.’
And till four the poor boys, with but small intermission, Were compell’d to write verses with speed and precision. On Tuesday again all the morning we sate, Trustees and examiners deep in debate; The latter in gowns, like inquisitors drest, In boots and in riding apparel the rest. The boys answer’d well every question we put, Till their books and our own with like pleasure were shut. Then we feasted on venison and capital fare, Lord Ailsford, our president, sate in the
chair, And many of equal distinction were there. Sir Theophilus Biddulph, and Skipwith Sir Grey, (Lord Craven, for some proper cause, kept
away), Lord Wentworth, Grimes, Digby, and Holbeach, Esquires, The last, Mr. Trevor’s old friend, and my
sire’s; Dr. Berkeley, and others—a company
staunch As ever sate down to a pasty and haunch. For myself I was glad that our business was done, And some moments allowed to good humour and fun; But still better pleased, that the boys, by their knowledge, Had three of them gained exhibitions at college; And beginning their race with some marks of renown, Might perchance to the goal with like honour go down. From Mr. Merivale.
My dear Hodgson,—Thank you for being the first to break the inhuman
silence of which you so justly complain. Ever since you wrote, I have been very
uncomfortable at home in consequence of another illness of my wife. With this,
and a good deal of business
at chambers, I have had as little time as spirits to write, though, on Tuesday,
I should certainly have done so, in order to communicate the bloody
business1 of the preceding evening, if I had not
been interrupted by Ben Drury’s
arrival, and gone down with him to the House of Commons, where we were both
highly gratified by the conduct of the whole House on this unexampled occasion.
Whitbread did himself immortal
honour by his manly and generous speech. Ponsonby’s totally unaffected feelings so overcame him as
greatly to interrupt and cut short his rhetoric; but the effect was, of course,
so much the more impressive. Even Lord
Castlereagh, aye, the Castlereagh of Walcheren, the Castlereagh
of Ireland, I adored at the moment. Canning was the only man that spoke who had sufficient command
of himself to attempt turning a sentence prettily; and his speech, accordingly,
was very pretty indeed. As for Burdett,
poor miserable creature as he is, his silence now has, I think, sunk him lower
than his noise heretofore. Suppose for a moment that Pitt had been assassinated like Perceval, and that the savage mob had mingled the cry of
‘Fox for ever’
1 The assassination of Perceval, then Prime Minister, by
Bellingham, within the walls
of the House.
with their brutal exultations, would he not have made all
Westminster ring— and more, From Tothill Fields to Lambeth’s Surrey shore, with the vehemence of his generous execrations of the deed? As for his
pitiful successor, he is too mean-spirited for a decided villain; and
accordingly I do not believe that he exulted, like his own miserable electors,
in the deed. But that he did not rush forward at the instant to disavow it and
declare his abhorrence of the wretches who could use his name on such an
occasion, and his deep sorrow that in the discharge of his public duty he
should ever have used expressions capable of such inflammatory interpretation,
such horrible misconstruction; this, I think, is enough to rank him with
Philippe Egalité” himself.
And now that we are able to take breath, and ask ourselves,
what will be the probable result of this ‘knavish piece of work,’ I
am greatly afraid, for my own part, that there is little room for hope of
ultimate good. ‘The Church was cemented by the blood of its
martyrs,’ and, unfortunately, whether a cause is good or bad,
these violent acts of revenge and desperation against its supporters are, I
believe, uniformly found rather to benefit than to injure it. If I am not
mistaken, the universal feeling of pity and horror for the deed, and of
apprehension for its consequences, will strengthen the hands of the present
Government, notwithstanding the loss of its chief, even more than the most
rigorous exertions of Perceval, when
alive, could have done it. I anticipate no speedy change, either of men or
measures, as its consequence; and, if there is none, what have we to do but
deplore, without any mixture of hope or satisfaction, the loss of a man, who,
however erroneous his principles, was a man of business, of firmness, and
integrity, far superior to any of those with whom he was associated in power?
I have not a moment’s time to write any further. You
have heard of the birth of Drury’s
son. When do you leave Cambridge? I wish to my soul that we could meet. Write
directly if you can furnish me with any plan of your operations.
Yours ever affectionately, J. H. Merivale.
In the election of the Duke of Gloucester
in 1811 to the Chancellorship of the University of Cambridge Hodgson took an active part, as is proved by two
letters—one from that Edward Dwyer, upon whom
Byron elsewhere begs Drury to execute summary punishment ‘for frightening his
horses with his flame-coloured whiskers,’ the other from the
Duke’sprivate secretary.
My dear Hodgson,—Ten thousand thanks for your very kind letter, which
I have transmitted to the Duke, who, I am
sure, will consider himself under no small obligation, not only for the very
handsome manner in which you support him, but also for the valuable
intelligence of the state of parties which it conveys. I officiate to-morrow at
Lincoln’s Inn, both morning and evening, but intend, if I have time, to
see the Duke, and the moment I have anything to communicate I shall transmit it
to you, whom we may regard as one of our main pillars. I saw our friend
Drury on Thursday, and am chagrined
to find that the report of his preferment is without foundation.
Yours ever, Edward Dwyer.
Sir,—I am honoured with the commands of His Royal
Highness the Duke of Gloucester to return to
you his best thanks, with an assurance His Royal Highness entertains of your
attention to him in the election to the Chancellorship.
I have the honour to be, Sir, Your very obedient and humble servant, Edmund Currey.
The interest which Hodgson took in
this election, like all other subjects which interested him, found an utterance in verses.
In an irregular ode for the installation of the Duke of
Gloucester, a sketch is given of all the most illustrious Cambridge students
who had passed the lamp of genius on from one generation to another.
The youthful characteristics of a future Bishop of Lichfield of such
eminence as Lonsdale, and his views on various
subjects, are pro tanto instructive.
Harrow: March 12.
My dear Hodgson,—Requested or rather commanded by the great, I write
to request your ‘vote and interest’ for the Duke of Rutland and Lord
Palmerston. The latter I conceive you will oppose from principle. . . . . Lonsdale has just left me: he is a most excellent, clever, and
affable fellow. I am highly delighted with him. You will see him at Cambridge in a day or two; when, I hope, he will be
able to arrange something with you touching the Easter holidays. My plans are
not yet made up; but my wavering is in consequence of your delay in settling.
Lonsdale is my agent to treat with you: he and I will
meet you anywhere. In haste.
Most truly yours, H. Drury.
Dear Hodgson,—I
must allow the justice of the complaints of your third letter against me for
not having sooner thanked you for the pleasure which I received from your two
first, poetical as they were; and for so long omitting to acknowledge the
receipt of the enclosed unpoetical scraps of paper, which by reunion to one
another have been sometime restored to that consequence in the world of which
their separation deprived them. But I hope that you will not suffer your anger
to proceed so far against me as to forbid your muse to address any more of her
effusions to me: still less am I disposed to think that, when you say that you
‘must not sing again at all,’ your declaration is any other than
merely poetical.
Oh, never check thy flowing strain, Nor say, ‘I must not sing again.’ Whate’er the tenour of thy lay, Serenely sad, or wildly gay; Whether ’tis Love that wakes to fire The slumb’ring raptures of thy lyre; Or Reason bids the moral song In sober cadence roll along; Believe me, still to Friendship’s ear Thy strain is sweet, thy muse is dear. Oh! better far one verse of thine, One artless bold, impassion’d line, Than all the frigid rant, that e’er Fitzgerald bawls or Tories hear, What time to Bigotry’s blest pow’r They dedicate the festal hour And raise their heads in triumph high O’er baffled Liberality; Who weeps the while at Fox’s
tomb, And thinks on happier days to come.
You see how I, albeit unused to the rhyming mood, have been
infected by the contagion of your example. But ‘ohe jam satis
est’—‘neque enim concludere
versum Dixeris esse satis.’—You ask me what I
am doing here. Truth compels me to answer next to nothing; for the fact is that
I find that unless I am actually tied down to some employment it is impossible
to prefer dry reading to social pleasure. When I return to town after the
summer, if I do return, I am determined to go immediately
to a special pleader, by which I shall be put into a train of doing something,
and fall into the habit of business, if anything can counteract the effects of
the desultory manner in which everything is done at Eton and King’s.
Since we parted I have been present at some Harrow speeches, which are far
superior to those at Eton, even if the entertainment after them be not
considered. I have also been spending a day or two with B. Drury at Eton, who brought me back in his
curricle by way of Richmond on Saturday. The day was fine, and consequently I
cannot say how beautiful I thought that place. Eton looks all lovely, always
excepting Carter’s chamber, which is more beastly than ever.
Believe me, dear Hodgson, very sincerely yours,
Jno. Lonsdale.
In the spring of this year, the Laureateship having fallen vacant by the
death of poet Pye, Hodgson published a series of imitations of living poets, in the style of
the ‘Rejected Addresses’
which had appeared in the previous autumn. They are entitled ‘Leaves of Laurel,’ or ‘New Probationary
Odes for the vacant Laureateship,’ and are prefaced by the Miltonian motto, ‘Yet once more, oh
ye laurels,’ &c. The judge of the rival performances is supposed to be
the celebrated clown Grimaldi, whose successive
criticisms are singularly appropriate. Campbell and
Rogers commence the competition, and the
‘Pleasures of Hope’
are aptly contrasted with the ‘Pleasures of Memory.’ By a sudden transition Scott supplants the rivals, and full justice is done to the extreme beauty
of his descriptive powers, while the rapidity of his execution is very cleverly parodied.
Byron follows, and in a mournful monologue bewails
the nothingness of all earthly existence, where ‘dust is all in all, and all in all
is dust.’ His inordinate fondness for that poetical device which he used himself to
term ‘alliteration’s apt and artful aid,’ and his habit of introducing
obsolete words and phrases, were often the subjects of good-humoured banter among his
friends, and are here amusingly ridiculed. Moore continues the contest with an eulogy of
Dryden in the metre of ‘Love’s Young Dream,’ and is followed by
Crabbe, whom the judge pronounces to be Nature
itself, and by Wordsworth, whose simplicity is
declared to exceed even that of Nature. After the introduction of several minor poets, the
Resurrection Tragedy by Coleridge, and Southey’s ‘Blessings of a
Sinecure’ conclude the series.
The ‘Leaves of
Laurel’ were much discussed and admired in literary society at the time of
their publication, and, as in the case of the ‘Rejected Addresses,’ the poets whose style they
imitated were not the last to appreciate their spirit and humour.
CHAPTER XIII. INTENDED MARRIAGE—BYRON’S GENEROSITY
—LETTERS FROM BYRON, ROGERS,
PRINCE LUCIEN BUONAPARTE, MRS. LEIGH, AND
MISS MILBANKE. 1813-14.
In this and the following year (1813-14) Hodgson spent the greater part of his Cambridge vacations
in London, where he was pretty constantly in the company of Lord
Byron, and was cordially admitted into that brilliant society, of which
those who had opportunities of contemporary observation have declared that it has never
been surpassed. Holland House opened its hospitable doors to him, and he was brought into
close contact with many of those stars of the literary firmament whose brightness shed
undying lustre upon the age in which they shone.
There is unfortunately no detailed record of this most interesting period
of his life; but the ensuing letters testify sufficiently to the high estimation in which his character and talents were held by two at least of his
associates, whose praise was fame.
It was most unfortunate that at this very time those pecuniary
embarrassments, to which allusion has previously been made, were pressing most heavily upon
him—embarrassments from which he was suddenly relieved in a manner equally
unsolicited and unexpected. It was in the autumn of the first ot these years that Byron gave proof of the depth of his regard for his friend, no
less than of the natural nobility of his disposition, by his generous gift of 1,000l. Hodgson had become
attached to a Miss Tayler, a young lady of great
beauty and refinement, whose sister was married to his old friend and schoolfellow,
Henry Drury. The mother refused her consent to
the marriage unless all previous liabilities were completely cleared.
Byron at once offered to discharge his friend’s
debts—an offer which Hodgson, after repeated refusals,
ultimately accepted, although he resolved to consider the assistance as merely temporary,
as a loan rather than a gift.
In a letter to his uncle, the Rev. Francis
Coke, written in November of this year, Hodgson thus comments upon this signal instance of true friendship:—
My noble-hearted friend Lord Byron,
after many offers of a similar kind,
which I felt bound to refuse, has irresistibly in my present circumstances (as I will
soon explain to you) volunteered to pay all my debts, and within a few pounds it is
done! Oh, if you knew (but you do know) the exaltation of heart, aye and of head too, I
feel, at being free from these depressing embarrassments, you would, as I do, bless my
dearest friend and brother Byron. And what has made me now accept
what I have before frequently declined?
Then he goes on to declare his engagement, to which reference has been made
above. The friends went together in Lord Byron’s
carriage to Hammersley’s in Pall Mall, where the money was transferred from one
account to the other. ‘On our way back to his lodgings’ (in Bennet Street),
Hodgson writes, ‘I expressed as well as
I could (and it was not very easy), my overwhelming gratitude; and he replied, with the
strongest marks of feeling, and disinclination to hear the thing mentioned,
“Don’t speak of it, I always intended to do
it.”’ He seems only to have waited for the opportunity when the gift
would be of greatest service. Nothing can exceed the delicacy of feeling, the tender
consideration displayed by Byron on this occasion. But,
notwithstanding the repeated assurances of the donor, the sense of
obligation appears to have continued to weigh heavily upon the recipient for many months,
during which he more than once offered bonds and promissory notes bearing interest, all of
which Byron resolutely refused, with such words as these: ‘What
is the use of a bond? I should only destroy or cancel it, or leave you the same by
will.’
Some years afterwards Bland wrote on
this subject:—
I remember distinctly, and as if it were yesterday, sitting with
Byron one day, at his lodgings in the street
going into St. James’s Street, when, in one of his lighter moods, he was talking
you over. Among other pleasantries he spoke with great glee upon the idea of your ever
refunding; with some tenderness on his ever re-accepting what he had given; and then
glee again upon your having put or thrust or shoved (for this was his style) a paper
into his hands which he destroyed, saying: ‘As if I ought to have given it
him on such terms, as if I would ever listen to such nonsense, as if anyone knowing
Hodgson’s finances could dream of
such a thing.’
At the end of November 1813, it became known to Byron that Hodgson, in the fulness of his gratitude, had mentioned
the present to mutual friends; and on December 1, Byron writes,
apologising for the fact of his assistance being known to a person whom he mentions, or to
anyone save Drury and Hodgson
himself, who, he is sure, ‘cannot be more hurt at it than he is himself;’ and
adds: ‘If you ever considered it in the least an obligation, this must give you a
full and fair release from it,’ finishing jocosely, as was his wont, but not
the less feelingly, To John I owe some obligation, But John unluckily thinks fit To publish it to all the nation, So John and I are more than quit.
In his diary, written the same night, we read:—
Wrote to H. He has been telling that I ———. I am
sure, at least, I did not mention it, and I wish he had not. He is a good fellow, and I
obliged myself ten times more by being of use than I did him,—and there’s
an end on’t.
Curiously enough, notwithstanding Byron’s impression that he had destroyed them all, one of Hodgson’s promissory notes did slip into the
memoranda and letters left by the noble poet at his death, and upon
this unexpectedly discovered document the executors set up a claim for repayment, which,
however, as soon as the real nature of the transaction became apparent, was at once
relinquished.
In October 1813, Byron, Drury, and Hodgson
went together in a postchaise to Oxford, where Byron had
an interview with Mrs. Tayler, who was then on a
visit to her brother, the Dean of Christ Church. The
result of this interview was the removal of all objections to the intended marriage, which,
however, did not take place until the beginning of the next year but one. Hodgson waited in the expectation of a college living;
but, as none appeared likely to fall vacant, he married on a curacy, and soon afterwards
obtained a living through private interest. These successive events will be duly chronicled
in the order of their occurrence. In the meantime, the correspondence of the current year
demands insertion. The first letter refers to a previous proposal by
Hodgson that the intended gift should be a loan.
February 3, 1813.
My dear Hodgson,—I will join you in any bond for the money you
require, be it that or a larger sum. With regard to security, as Newstead is in
a sort of abeyance between sale and purchase, and my Lancashire property very unsettled, I do not know
how far I can give more than personal security, but what I can I will. I hear
nothing of my own concerns, but expect a letter daily. Let me hear from you
where you are and will be this month. I am a great admirer of the R. A.
(‘Rejected
Addresses’), though I have had so great a share in the cause
of their publication, and I like the C. H. (‘Childe Harold’) imitation one of the best. Lady O. (Oxford) has heard me talk much of you as
a relative of the Cokes, etc., and desires me to say she
would be happy to have the pleasure of your acquaintance. You must come and see
me at K——. I am sure you would like all here if you knew them.
The ‘Agnus’1 is furious. You can have
no idea of the horrible and absurd things she has said and done since (really
from the best motives) I withdrew my homage. ‘Great pleasure’ is,
certes, my object, but ‘Why brief,Mr. Wild?’ I cannot answer
for the future, but the past is pretty secure; and in it I can number the last
two months as worthy of the gods in Lucretius. I cannot review in the
‘Monthly;’ in fact I
can just now do nothing,
1Lady Caroline
Lamb.
at least with a pen; and I really think the days of
authorship are over with me altogether. I hear and rejoice in Bland’s and Merivale’s intentions.1Murray has grown great, and has got him
new premises in the fashionable part of town. We live here so shut out of the
monde that I have nothing of general import to
communicate, and fill this up with a ‘happy new year,’ and drink to
you and Drury.
Ever yours, dear H., B.
I have no intention of continuing ‘Childe Harold.’ There
are a few additions in the ‘body of the book’ of description,
which will merely add to the number of pages in the next edition. I have
taken Thyrnham Court. The business of last summer I broke off, and now the
amusement of the gentle fair is writing letters literally threatening my
life, and much in the style of Miss
Matthews in ‘Amelia,’ or Lucy in the ‘Beggar’s Opera.’ Such is the
reward of restoring a woman to her family, who are treating her with the
greatest kindness, and with whom I am on good terms. I am still in
‘palatia Circes,’ and,
being no Ulysses, cannot tell
1 The republication of the Anthology.
into
what animal I may be converted. . . . . She has had her share of the
denunciations of the brilliant Phryne,
and regards them as much as I do. I hope you will visit me at Th., which
will not be ready before spring, and I am very sure you would like my
neighbours if you knew them. If you come down now to Kington,1 pray come and see me.
June 6, 1813.
My dear Hodgson,—I write to you a few lines on business. Murray has thought proper at his own risk, and
peril, and profit (if there be any) to publish the ‘Giaour’; and it may possibly come under
your ordeal in the ‘Monthly,’ I merely wish to state that in the published copies
there are additions to the amount of ten pages, text and
margin (chiefly the last),
which render it a little less unfinished (but more unintelligible) than before.
If, therefore, you review it, let it be from the published copies and not from
the first sketch. I shall not sail for this month, and shall be in town again
next week, when I shall be happy to hear from but more glad to see you. You
know I have no
1 Near Lower Moor, the residence of his
relatives, the Cokes.
time or turn for correspondence (!). But you also know, I
hope, that I am not the less
Yours ever, ΜΠΑΙΡΩΝ.
The first of the two following letters from Mr. Samuel Rogers was written in acknowledgment of a letter expressing
admiration of his last poem ‘Columbus;’ the second has reference to Merivale’s ‘Richardetto,’ which has been
noticed in a former chapter:—
My dear Sir,—What shall I say to you for your very
kind and encouraging letter? I can assure you I opened it at a moment when it
would affect me the most; and, whatever the critics may say, I shall always
regard it as a much higher reward. Praise such as yours is what I have always
wished for above all things, though I fear I never shall deserve it.
With the greatest respect, I am yours most sincerely, Saml. Rogers.
My dear Sir,—Many, many thanks for your kindness, and
pray express my grateful acknowledgments to Mr.
Merivale for his very elegant present. I make no doubt that it
will fulfill (sic) your promise—that I shall read it with my first
feelings—and that it will bring back to my mind that delicious evening
(an evening in July) when I first discovered the ‘Minstrel’1
among some loose pamphlets in my father’s library. Alas! alas! Five and
thirty years have fled, and yet it seems but yesterday.
Yours most sincerely, Saml. Rogers.
From Lord Byron.
October 1, 1813.
My dear H.,—I leave town again for Aston2 on Sunday, but have messages for you. Lord Holland desired me repeatedly to bring you;
he wants to know you much, and begged me to say so; you will like him. I had an
invitation for you to dinner there this last Sunday, and Rogers is perpetually screaming because you
don’t call, and wanted you also to dine with him on Wednesday last.
Yesterday we had Curran there—who
is beyond all conception!—and Mackintosh and the wits are to be seen at H. H. constantly, so
that I
1 By Beattie.
2 Aston Hall, near Rotherham, Yorkshire, now
the property of Harry Verelst,
Esq., brother-in-law to the writer of this memoir.
think you would like their society. I will be a judge
between you and the attorned. So B.1 may mention me to Lucien if he still adheres to his opinion. Pray let Rogers be one; he has the best taste extant.
Bland’s nuptials delight me;
if I had the least hand in bringing them about it will be a subject of selfish
satisfaction to me these three weeks. Desire Drury—if he loves me—to kick Dwyer thrice for frightening my horses with
his flame-coloured whiskers last July. Let the kicks be hard, etc.
On his return from Aston a fortnight later he adds a hurried apology for
the brevity of his letters at this time.
Excuse haste and laconism. I am in town but for a few days,
and hurried with a thousand things.
Believe me ever yours most truly, Byron.
The Lucien referred to above is Prince Lucien Buonaparte, who had recently published an epic
poem, in twenty-four books, entitled ‘Charlemagne; or, the Church Delivered,’ the translation of which
1Butler.
was undertaken by the
Rev. Samuel Butler, Head-Master of Shrewsbury,
and Francis Hodgson. Of part of the latter’s
share in the work, the ‘Critical’
remarks that it combines closeness with luminous force.
The following letter proves that the appreciation of his talents as a
translator was not confined to English readers:—
20 octobre 1813.
Monsieur,—Je reçois avec reconnaissance le bel
exemplaire de votre traduction de Juvenal:
je ne suis pas en état de juger de la poésie anglaise, mais
l’opinion publique sur votre ouvrage est la garantie de ce que vous ferez
pour Charlemagne: j’ai reçu des lettres de M. le docteur Parr et du chevalier
(Boothby?), qui parlent tous de vous comme M. Butler, et, comme j’en pense,
d’après notre promenade en enfer: à propos d’enfer, je
viens de faire un changement à la décoration du bouclier
d’Irmensul1 dans le 10me Chant. Au lieu d’un Léopard farouche lisez
d’un Dragon furieux: le léopard est sur les armes d’une nation
trop civilisée et trop respectée par moi, quoique momentairement
2
1 Under the character of Irniensul, the god of the Saxons and
northern hordes, the miraculous agency of Satan is
introduced into the poem.
2 Illegible.
pour que nous le laissions sur le bouclier
d’Irmensul. Agréez mes
compliments affect Votre très, etc.
Lucien Buonaparte.
The poem of ‘Charlemagne’ was begun on the mountains of Tusculum, near Rome, where the
Prince had retired after having quitted public affairs; it was continued at Malta, and
finished during its author’s captivity in England. The dedication to Pope Pius VII. was written at Rome in May 1814, in grateful
recognition of the kindnesses with which His Holiness had loaded the Prince and his family
for ten years.
In Byron’s journal and letters of
this year there are some general remarks on several characteristic traits of Hodgson’s disposition, which bear interesting
testimony to the value attached to his opinion on literary subjects, and to the warm
affection which existed between them. For instance, in a letter to Murray, after a complaint of the unexpected length to
which the ‘Giaour’ had been
extended, the poet observes:—
The last lines Hodgson likes.
It is not often he does, and when he don’t he tells me with great energy, and I
fret and alter.
To Moore he writes:—
I hope you are going on with your grand
coup.1 Pray do; or that ———
Lucien Buonaparte will beat us all. I have seen
much of his poem in MS., and he really surpasses everything beneath Tasso. Hodgson
is translating him against another bard. You (and I believe Rogers), Scott, Gifford, and myself are to be referred to as judges
between the twain.
In the journal for November 1813, we read:—
Hodgson, too, came. He is going to be married,
and he is the kind of man who will be happier. He has talent, cheerfulness, everything
that can make him a pleasing companion; and his intended is handsome and young and all
that.
Again, of the ‘Bride of
Abydos,’ he says:—
Hodgson likes it better than the ‘Giaour,’ but nobody else will; and
he never liked the ‘Fragment.’
And, again, in the same month, in a letter to Murray:—
Mr. Hodgson has looked over and stopped (or,
rather,
1Lalla Rookh.
pointed) this revise, which must be the one to print from. He has
also made some suggestions, with most of which I have complied, as he has always, for
these ten years, been a very sincere and by no means (at times) flattering critic of
mine. He likes it (you will think flatteringly in this instance) better than the
‘Giaour,’ but doubts
(and so do I) its being so popular; but, contrary to some others, advises a separate
publication. On this we can easily decide. I confess I like the double form better. Hodgson says it is better versified
than any of the others, which is odd, if true, as it has cost me less time (though more
hours at a time) than any attempt I ever made.
Hodgson was among those favoured few to whom
Murray received special instructions to send the
earliest copies. His opinion of the ‘Bride’ was soon endorsed by no less a personage than Canning, who pronounced it to be ‘very, very
beautiful.’ Six thousand copies were sold in one month. As a striking instance of the
retentiveness of its author’s memory, it may here be mentioned that he once recited
it from beginning to end whilst travelling with Hodgson in a
post-chaise by night from Newstead to London.
In February of the following year the Journal continues:—
Hodgson just called and gone. He has much bonhommie with his other good qualities, and more talent than he
has yet had credit for beyond his circle.
And again:—
I wish that I had a talent for the drama; I would write a tragedy now. But no, it is gone. Hodgson talks of one—he will do it well; and I think Moore should try it.
The next letter from Byron, and the
next from T. Rennell, a King’s man of some
reputation in his day, who was at this time a candidate for the Provost-ship of his
College,1 caused by the death of Humphrey Sumner, bear evidence to the feeling entertained by friends of the
kindliness of Hodgson’s nature.
Feb. 28, 1814.
There is a youngster, and a clever one, named Reynolds, who has just published a poem called
‘Safia,’
published by Cawthorne. He is in the
most natural and fearful apprehension of the reviewers;
1Hodgson’s support had already been given to his
more intimate friend Geo.
Thackeray, who was ultimately elected.
and as you and I both know by experience the effect of
such things upon a young mind, I wish you would take his production into
dissection, and do it gently. I cannot, because it is inscribed to me; but I
assure you this is not my motive for wishing him to be tenderly entreated, but
because I know the misery, at his time of life, of untoward remarks upon first
appearance. Now for self. Pray thank your cousin; it is just as it should be,
to my liking, and probably more than will suit anyone else’s. I hope and
trust you are well and well-doing.
Peace be with you! Ever yours, my dear friend, Byron.
Deanery, Winton: March 26, 1814.
Dear Sir,—I fear you will think me very presumptuous,
in placing myself before you as candidate for the succession to the Provostship
of King’s in the present vacancy. But as I thought I discerned, when I
had the happiness of seeing you, that the ‘elements were mixed in
you,’ and that a large portion of the milk of human kindness was
combined with your other high talents and attainments, I trust that whatever
may be the part you take
in this contest you will receive with candour my application for your support.
Believe me, sir, that I neither vapour nor flatter when I say that I have both
a mind to feel and gratitude to appreciate the value of such support. I can
only add that if by the kindness of my friends I should succeed, my residence
upon my post should be constant, and that, in conjunction with yourself and
others animated by the same views, I should, according to the best of my
powers, endeavour to encourage and promote a spirit of honourable emulation and
industry among the young men of the College.
I beg you to believe me, Yours with great esteem, T. Rennell.
It was in this year that Hodgson
commenced a correspondence with Lord Byron’s
sister, the Hon. Mrs. Leigh, with whom he had for
some time been acquainted; a correspondence which was continued at frequent intervals for
nearly forty years, and which contains many most interesting references to the object of
their mutual regard. The first of these letters remaining refers to a house which
Byron had taken at Hastings, where Hodgson
was also staying, and where the friends had passed many happy hours in
one another’s society.
My brother desires me to send you the enclosed, and thinks
the house was taken from the 13th of July for a month, and therefore that
Mr. Barry must have made a mistake in saying the time
will have expired next Wednesday. You probably can explain this. Pray excuse my
being so troublesome.
Yours sincerely, Augusta Leigh.
The next letter is dated Newstead Abbey, Sept. 14, 1814.
B. being very lazy, I have requested and
obtained permission to write to you, and can only plead in excuse for proposing
myself as his substitute, that I have something to say about pupils, and a
letter to enclose on the same interesting subject. I have mentioned your wish
to several of my friends.1 I shall hope very soon to
hear that you are as happy as I wish you and yours to be. B. desires to be most
kindly remembered. Newstead is quite his own again, and Mr. Claughton has forfeited £25,000. Of
future plans I really can say nothing,
1 This refers to his intended marriage.
they are in such a glorious
state of uncertainty. I hope he will write to you of them himself; in the
meantime
Believe me yours most sincerely, Augusta Leigh.
From Hastings Hodgson writes in
high spirits to Harry Drury, and again from
Cambridge, where he had gone into residence for the last time.
King’s: Sunday.
My dear old Friend,—Is it impossible for you to come
here before the term ends? We could then pass our last
days at King’s together, and shed a tear on Haslingfield’s green
baulks, if baulks be there still green? Think of this, Master Brooks. I have a letter from
Merivale this morning, canvassing
for a history of John Sobieski, and
accusing me of excessive ‘melancholy, gravity, and refinement!’ I
was greatly amused with the charges, having just cut myself shaving from a
sudden laugh when the letter came. Lonsdale was with me yesterday and amused me very much by his
account of ‘the springs rising’ when you
were fishing at Walkerne. Adieu.
Ever yours, F. H.
Merivale’s charge of ‘melancholy,’
&c., was endorsed by Byron in a letter to Drury
of about the same date; but it was only true at times. After alluding to the near approach
of his own marriage, Byron writes:—
I hope Hodgson is in a fair way
on the same voyage. I saw him and his idol at
Hastings. I wish he would be married at the same time. I should like to make a party,
like people electrified in a row, by (or rather through) the same chain, holding one
another’s hands, and all feeling the shock at once. I have not yet apprised him
of this. He makes such a serious matter of all these things, and is so
‘melancholy and gentlemanlike’ that it is quite overcoming to us choice
spirits.
In October of this year Byron met
Hodgson in town, where he stayed only a few
days, ‘hurried,’ as he says, ‘with a thousand things,’ and begging
to be excused for ‘his haste and laconism;’ and again at Cambridge, whence
Hodgson wrote to his future
wife an account of their meeting. A fragment of this letter remains, and is
of great interest as containing contemporary comment upon an event of such vital importance
to those most immediately concerned in it, and of such world-wide celebrity as the marriage
of Lord and Lady Byron. This fragment also proves the high opinion
entertained by Hodgson of his friend’s bride, an opinion which
remained unaltered until her resolute determination to resist all attempts at
reconciliation rendered sympathy with her impossible for anyone who retained his friendship
for her husband.
It is most natural that Byron should be absorbed by the thought even, much more by the
society, of one of the most divine beings upon earth. He was on his way to
Seaham, Sir Ralph Milbanke’s seat.
His sister, in her last sweet letter,
says, ‘I have not heard from him for some time, and am uneasy about
it; but it is very selfish to be so, for I know he is happy, and what more
can I wish.’ Well, on Friday evening, after I had put my letter
to you in the post, and one to Harry
Drury, and one to my cousin, I was tired with writing, and
thought I would go to the coffee-room and read the papers. With nothing then,
for the moment, but Colonel Quintin and Hanoverianism in my head, I was
passing by the Sun Inn, literally passing by if, and at a quick pace, when a
carriage and four drove up to the door. A sudden thought struck me; I cried out
‘Byron!’ and was answered by
a hearty ‘Hodgson!’ He
was about to send to me at King’s. He would not have found me there, as I
should have been detained for an hour at least with Colonel Quintin. Consequently, he would have
gone on to his sister’s, and I should not have seen him. As it was, we
supped together and sate till a late hour over our claret, talking of many and
delightful things. He told me all that could be told of
his visit to Seaham, and, in a word, for I can say no more if I talk for ever
on the subject, he is likely to be as happy as I am. Oh!
how I glowed with indignation at the base reporters of his Fortune-hunting. I will tell you the particulars when we meet.
Meanwhile, entre nous, he is
sacrificing a great deal too much. Not to Miss
M.—that is impossible—because nothing is too much for
her, and (as is usual in these cases) she would require nothing. But her
parents (although B. speaks of them with the most beautiful respect) certainly
to me appear to be most royally selfish persons. Her fortune is not large at
present, but he settles £60,000 upon her. This he cannot do without
selling Newstead again; and with a look and manner that I cannot easily forget
he said: ‘You know we must think of these things as little as
possible.’ ‘But,’ I replied, ‘I am certain, if she saw
Newstead she would not let
you part with it.’ ‘Bless her! she has nothing to do with it. Nor
would I excite a feeling in her mind that may be prejudicial to her
interests.’ Now where, where are the hearts of those who can under-value,
who can depreciate this man? Besides this, Miss M.’s principal
expectations are from Lord Wentworth, her
uncle, an old and very infirm man, whom I have often met at Rugby. Perfectly
disposed to pay him every respect, B. would not go out of his road to visit
him. To meet him he would have been very glad, but he went straight to Miss M.
He is returning to town for the purpose of settling all legal affairs, and
returns to the North in a fortnight, straight to be married. He fully explained
to Miss M. his feeling about Lord W. She was satisfied, and that is enough. As
to herself, I have much indeed to tell you. The whole story is an interesting
one. B. knows that the lawyers will not be ready for him for this day or two,
and therefore, although he was going immediately to London, he means to stay in
the neighbourhood till’ Wednesday to vote for his friend Clark,1 of Trinity, at
the election for the Anatomical Professor. He promised . . . .
1 The Traveller.
P.S.—I open my letter to say that when Lord Byron went to give his vote just now in the
Senate House, the young men burst out into the most rapturous applause.
Mine of yesterday mentioned in the postscript the
nattering manner in which Lord Byron was
received in the Senate House. I should add that as I was going to vote I met
him coming away, and presently saw that something had happened, by his extreme
paleness and agitation. Dr. Clark, who
was with him, told me the cause, and I returned with B. to my room. There I
begged him to sit down and write a letter and communicate this event, which he
did not feel up to, but wished I would. So down I sate
and commenced my acquaintance with Miss
Milbanke by writing her an account of this most pleasing event,
which, although nothing at Oxford, is here very unusual indeed; and, as I told
you, had occasioned the dismissal of the young men from the Senate House only a
few days ago. I also wrote to his sister, and thus I have two more female friends, or one at least,
to introduce.
We dined with Dr.
Clark and saw a very sweet woman in his wife; himself the most
natural, pleasing, and kind of men. But more upon this subject when we meet.
This morning Lord B. and Mr. Hobhouse departed. B. is to send me word
about —— as a pupil.
A few other remarks occurring in letters of this date are illustrative of
the writer’s sentiments on the different subjects to which they refer.
The first speaks of a change in a friend:—
You can have no conception now, what a very
sweet and engaging manner my friend once had. Illness and affliction will destroy
everything, will even turn the gentle into the tart and severe:
the most horrible of all changes in my mind. But I have a female friend whom I long
indeed to introduce to you. A Herefordshire lady, still called Miss
Hill, although now waning into the denomination of Mrs. Of her more hereafter. This earth does not hold a better being.
The sweetest line I ever met with (as we are on the
subject—i.e., of epitaphs) is that in Hendon Churchyard— Now my good angel, once my virtuous wife.
The next three letters, written in the year before Lord Byron’s ill-fated marriage, which at first promised such happy
results, are full of melancholy interest.
Sunday, November 13.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—Thank you a thousand times for your kind
congratulations on the approaching marriage, which I hope will secure my
dearest B.’s happiness. I had a letter from him on Friday last, in which
he says it cannot take place this month or three weeks, and that consequently
he shall visit London again in his unmarried state, and bids me expect to hear
again from him soon or, perhaps, see him. You probably are aware that he passed
through Cambridge1 a fortnight ago to-day, and I was
much surprised to hear slept that night at Wandsford, as when he left me his
intention was to do so at Cambridge, and for the purpose of seeing you. Believe
me, that it would gratify me sincerely to be of use to you in your present
dilemma,2 for I can enter into the feelings of you
and yours most entirely. Byron arrived here
late on Saturday night, and set out again soon after he had left his room on
Sunday, so that you may imagine I had but a short time to hear and say a
thousand things. In answer to an enquiry of mine about you, he
1 This was before the visit mentioned above.
2 This refers to the difficulty experienced by
Hodgson in finding a
suitable curacy, after giving up his fellowship at King’s.’
He was just at this time contemplating a chaplaincy.
answered that your marriage
was still delayed, but nothing more. Mr.
Hanson has been at Seaham, and I rather think must now be again
in town. Would it be of any use to you if I was to write
to him on the subject of the chaplaincy? The post between this and Seaham is so
dreadfully tedious, and, moreover, you know that B. does not always reply to
written enquiries. In spite of this I will write, and also to Mr. H. if you
think it better than your writing yourself. I only wish I could hit upon any
way of being useful to you. If anything strikes you, pray let me know it
immediately, and
Believe me very truly yours, Augusta Leigh.
B.’s address is Seaham, Stockton-upon-Tees,
Durham.
Six Mile Bottom: November 24.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—Many thanks for your welcome intelligence, which it
was kind of you to communicate. Poor B.! he
must, I think, have been disturbed. I think I see him—and it gives me
quite a nervous sensation. I would not have you think that I have forgot your
concerns, but not one syllable of answer have I got from
Mr. H. As far as regards myself this
does not signify, but I am rather angry with him for keeping you in suspense. I
suppose B. is gone, so I dare not enclose to him. I trust, indeed, there is
everything to hope for his happiness, and, as you say, Newstead is the only
drop of bitter in the cup. I try to banish it from my thoughts, but I cannot
from my dreams, where it haunts me eternally. Alas! I see no remedy, but I
never like to despair, and you would smile at my irrational hopes. Col. Leigh appears to think it not impossible
we may have the pleasure of seeing you here by-and-bye. I need not say what
pleasure it would give me. In the mean time
Believe me, Truly yours, A. L.
Seaham: November 25, 1814.
Dear Sir,—It will be easier for you to imagine than
for me to express the pleasure which your very kind letter has given me. Not
only on account of its gratifying intelligence, but also as introductory to an
acquaintance which I have been taught to value, and have sincerely desired. Allow me
to consider Lord Byron’s friend as not
‘a stranger,’ and accept, with my sincerest thanks, my best wishes
for your own happiness.
I am, dear Sir, Your faithful servant, A. I. Milbanke.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
CONTENTSOFTHE SECOND VOLUME. CHAPTER XIV. 1815-1816. PAGE
Critique on the ‘Hebrew
Melodies’—Separation of Lord and Lady
Byron—Correspondence with the latter 1
CHAPTER XV. 1816-1818.
Letters from Mrs. Leigh—Comments on the
separation 34
CHAPTER XVI. 1815-1822.
Ordination—Curacy—Living—Poems—Letters from
Byron from Ravenna—His opinion of
Hodgson’s poetry—Letters from Mrs.
Leigh, Moore, and Montgomery65
CHAPTER XVII. 1820. PAGE
Letters from Denman, John Bird
Sumner, Drury, Dean Ireland,
Herman Merivale, and the Duchess of
Devonshire—A tour in Yorkshire 105
CHAPTER XVIII. 1824-1827.
Letters from Mrs.
Leigh—Byron’s death, funeral, and
memoirs—Sketch of Newstead Abbey—Meeting with
Moore—His letters 133
CHAPTER XIX. 1827-1830.
Literary occupations—Letters from Rogers,
Montgomery, Alaric Watts,
Butler, Scrope Davies,
Drury, Lonsdale, and
Denman167
CHAPTER XX. 1830-1836.
Letters from Mrs. Leigh—To
Moore—From Butler, the Bishops of
Gloucester and Lincoln, the Duke of
Rutland, Merivale,
Rogers—Death of his first wife—Appointment to the
Archdeaconry of Derby 198
CHAPTER XXI. 1837-1840. PAGE
Letters of Merivale on religious subjects—From
Butler and from Mrs. Leigh—Marriage
with Miss Denman—Honey-moon at Hardwicke—Rectory of
Edensor—Letters from the Duke of Rutland, Lord
Denman, the Duke of Devonshire, and
Merivale—Appointment to the Provostship of
Eton—-Letter from Lord Wellesley229
CHAPTER XXII. 1840-1847.
Reforms at Eton—Visit to Brighton—Death of
Drury—Letters from Mrs. Robert
Arkwright and Henry Hallam—Visit of
Rogers to Eton—Byron’s
statue—His opinions on sculpture—Letter from Mrs.
Leigh—More reforms at Eton—Restoration of
the collegiate church—Abolition of ‘Montem’ 262
CHAPTER XXIII. 1840-1852.
Friendship and correspondence with Mr. Le Bas and
the Duke of Devonshire—Last illness—Death—Character
292
Index331
MEMOIROF THEREV. FRANCIS HODGSON, B.D. CHAPTER XIV. CRITIQUE ON THE ‘HEBREW
MELODIES’—LETTERS FROM MRS. LEIGH—SEPARATION
OF LORD AND LADY BYRON—CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE LATTER. 1815-16.
During the visit to London mentioned in the last chapter,
Byron wrote the ‘Hebrew Melodies,’ and early in the next year there
appeared a critique by Hodgson, the humorous satire of which is amusingly
characteristic of the critic. Censure conveyed in such kindly terms, and leavened by
judicious appreciation of all that was really praiseworthy, could not fail to be received
in a similar spirit to that which prompted it.
The critique commences by drawing attention to the change which had taken
place since the days of Pope in the reception
accorded to the productions of noble authors. The public were prejudiced against Lord Byron for more reasons than one. They were jealous of the
unique example which he afforded of a combination of rank and talent; a large and
influential section were indignant at his want of respect for the Prince Regent, whose ministers were, moreover, chagrined by their inability
to answer the arguments of those brilliant speeches in which he had so ruthlessly attacked
them. The critic ought, therefore, as he valued his reputation for loyalty and discernment,
to have discovered in these Songs of Sion a great deal of lurking evil against Church and
State; but finding it impossible to comply with these requirements, he prefers to proceed
at once to impartial comments upon the poetry.
The ‘Hebrew
Melodies’ consist of twenty-four short poems, which were written at
the request, as the author tells us, of his friend, the Hon. D. Kinnaird, for a selection of Hebrew airs, and have been
published with the music, arranged by Messrs. Braham & Nathan.
Great allowances are to be made for the trammels which a capricious time
throws upon a writer un-practised in this peculiar
knack of versification: and there is a degree of unconstrained and graceful fluency
requisite in words intended for music, a sort of free pencilling which is ill-suited to
a deep and energetic expression of feeling—the characteristic charm of Lord Byron’s poetry. Still, however, we ventured to
expect—and in this expectation we have not been disappointed—that we should
meet with much of that enchanting tenderness, that devotedness and chastity of feeling,
and that high and deep pathos, which charmed us in the short poems at the end of
‘Childe Harold,’ in the
common-places of the ‘Bride of
Abydos,’ in the delightful song of Medora in the first canto of the ‘Corsair,’ and in the beautiful ‘Farewell,’ printed at the end of
that poem.
Then follow some extracts, and the critique
continues:—
In every one of these songs (with the exception, perhaps, of two) we
find the traces of genius: a reflection, an image, a description, or an expression,
indicative of the hand of the άνήρ ούχ ό
τύχων. Many of them, however, it must be confessed, exhibit
faults of carelessness, and with a very few we would rather have dispensed. . . . The
vision of Belshazzar is much
the worst in the collection.
The opening lines, The king was on his throne, The satraps in the hall, reminded us forcibly of the ballad of our infancy, The king was in his parlour Counting out his money, etc. The eighth melody is worthy of its author. It is full of tenderness, and the
thought at the conclusion is, we believe, quite new— And thou—who tell’st me to forget. Thy looks are wan—thine eyes are wet. The following lines, too, are in the style of some of the best and most forcible
passages in the ‘Corsair’ or ‘Lara’— Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star! etc. Let Lord Byron continue to write in this
strain: it is natural to him, and it becomes him. Much, however, as we wish to excite
him to longer and nobler efforts, we must have the pleasure of giving one or two more
extracts from this book, which no inferior lyre could have sounded. It is scarcely descending from the higher
ground of Poetry, to write such lines as the following— ‘All is vanity,’ saith the preacher. ‘Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine,’ etc. The verses beginning, ‘When coldness wraps this suffering clay,’ are
replete with feeling and vigour. Vigour indeed, that sine quâ
non of poetry, and which covers a multitude of minor offences, breathes in
every line we have ever read of this author’s production. The melody we have just
mentioned, is highly characteristic of Lord B.’s muse. With his energy and
peculiarity of thinking, it combines also some faults peculiarly his. It has all that
tone of abstraction and obscurity which accompanies his development of very deep and
very original ‘imaginings;’ not without some degree of carelessness for the
labour he often occasions his unpractised readers; and a disregard of finish, which gives an apparent want of neatness to the most brilliant
thoughts. But we beseech his Lordship not to imitate Mr.
Scott’s ungraceful and ungrammatical omission of the article, as
he has done in the line An age shall fleet like earthly year. And we cannot help objecting to the expression, ‘a thing of eyes,’ as
applied to the soul, or, indeed, to anything but an ornamental paper kite. ‘Thing’ is a favourite word in the
noble poet’s vocabulary: we have again, in the last stanza of the same melody,
‘a nameless and eternal thing,’ and we are told that it shall fly
‘away, away without a wing,’ which brings us back again to the paper kite.
But the stanza descriptive of the mind after death is sterling bullion,
‘Eternal, boundless, undecay’d,’ etc. It is no disparagement to this
magnificent picture to say that it reminds us of Locke’s beautiful idea of angelic minds being endowed with
capacities able to retain together and constantly set before them, as in one picture,
‘in one broad glance,’ all their past knowledge at once.
After more detailed criticism, the opinion is expressed, in conclusion,
That if the ‘Hebrew
Melodies’ do not add much to their author’s fame, they assuredly
will not detract from it, for that there is a tone diffused throughout them which no
other living poet can impart.
That the marriage of Lord Byron, which
took place on the 2nd January, 1815, did at first justify an anticipation of permanent
happiness is proved by several passages in
the correspondence of that ‘sweet sister’ who knew and loved him so well; but
that her fond and, perhaps, too sanguine hopes were not altogether divested of gloomy
forebodings for the future is equally evident: and her anxious solicitations on the subject
cannot fail to attract the sympathy and interest of those who peruse their heartfelt
expression in the following letters.
Six Mile Bottom: December 15.
My dear Mr.
Hodgson,—You could not have gratified me more than by giving
me an opportunity of writing on my favourite subject to one so truly worthy of
it as you are; indeed I have repeatedly wished of late that I could communicate
with you, and should have ventured to do so by letter had I known your address.
Most thankful do I feel that I have so much to say that will delight you. I
have every reason to think that my beloved B. is very happy and comfortable. I hear constantly from him
and his Rib. They are now at Seaham, and not inclined to
return to Halnaby,1because
all the world were preparing to visit them there, and at S. they are free from
this torment, no trifling
1Sir Ralph
Milbanke’s other place in Durham, where they
passed the first month of their married life.
one in B.’s estimation, as you know. From my own
observations on their epistles, and knowledge of B.’s disposition and
ways, I really hope most confidently that all will turn
out very happily. It appears to me that Lady
B.sets about making him happy quite
in the right way. It is true I judge at a distance, and we generally hope as we wish; but I assure you
I don’t conclude hastily on this subject, and will own to you, what I
would not scarcely to any other person, that I hadmany fears and much anxiety founded
upon many causes and circumstances of which I cannot write. Thank God! that they do not appear likely to be realised. In
short, there seems to me to be but one drawback to all
our felicity, and that, alas! is the disposal of dear Newstead, which
I am afraid is irrevocably decreed. I received the fatal communication from
Lady B. ten days ago, and will own to you that it was
not only grief, but disappointment; for I had flattered myself such a sacrifice
would not be made. From my representations she had said and urged all she could
in favour of keeping it. Mr. Hobhouse
the same, and I believe (but I can’t exactly
explain to you particularly how and about it) that he was deputed to make inquiries and researches, and I know that he
wrote to B. suggesting the propriety and ex-pediency of at least delaying the sale. This most excellent advice created so much
disturbance in B.’s mind, that Lady B. wrote me word
‘He had such a fit of vexation he could not appear at dinner, or leave
his room.’ Claughton has since
that conceded the £5,000 in dispute, and I fear this would finally end all
difficulties. B.’s spirits had improved at the prospect of a release from
the embarrassments which interfered so much with his comfort, and I suppose I ought to be satisfied with this. But for the life of me, dear Mr. H., I cannot, never shall while I
breathe, I’m thoroughly convinced, feel reconciled to the loss of that
sacred, revered Abbey. The affliction it causes me is severely aggravated by
the conviction that it might by a little patience,
forbearance, and temporary prudence have been unnecessary, and that my darling
brother will some day lament this step, and perhaps others besides him. I am
determined to think it lost, though the thought makes me more melancholy than,
perhaps, the loss of an inanimate object ought to do; and I have determined
henceforward to hold my peace to others, for if it is really gone lamentations
can do no good. At the same time, I cannot always check a sort of inward
foreboding that it will not go. To be sure, this is perfectly irrational, but so it is, and I can only say
that I don’t encourage such superstitions. Anybody but you would be quite
tired of my bewailings on this sad subject, but I’m sure you feel on it
as much like me as anyone can who is not a Byron, and
therefore I will not apologise. May the future bring peace and comfort to my
dearest B.! that is always one of my first wishes; and I’m convinced it
is my duty to endeavour to be resigned to the loss of
this dear Abbey from our family, as well as all other griefs which are sent by
Him who knows what is good for us. It is said that
Lord P.’s1 sanity is likely to be established, which I’m
glad of for the sake of his poor wife;
but I can’t help wishing my brother’s concerns out of her father’s hands for very powerful
reasons.
I do not know what are B.’s plans. Lady B.
says nothing can be decided upon till their affairs are in some degree
arranged. They have been anxious to procure a temporary habitation in my
neighbourhood, which would be convenient to him and delightful to me, if his
presence is required in Town upon this sad Newstead business. But I’m
sorry to say I cannot hear of any likely to suit
1Lord
Portsmouth, who had recently married a daughter of Lord
Byron’s agent and solicitor, Mr.
Hanson.
them; and our house is
so very small, I could scarcely contrive to take them
in. Lady B. is extremely kind to me, for which I am most
grateful, and to my dearest B., for I am well aware how much I am indebted to
his partiality and affection for her good opinion. I will not give up the hope
of seeing them in their way to Town, whenever they do go, as for a few nights
they would, perhaps, tolerate the innumerable inconveniences attending the best
arrangement I could make for them. Before I quit the B. subject, I must ask you
a question which has just occurred to me. Did you ever hear that Landed Property, the gift of the
Crown, could not be sold? I have, but can scarcely believe it, because
I should think Mr. Claughton would be
aware of such a thing in the case of N. A thousand thanks for your kind
inquiries. My babes are all quite well; Medora more beautiful than ever. Col. L. is at present suffering from a very bad cough, which
I’m sorry to add he has had a great deal too long. He desires his best
compliments and regards to you.
Now, dear Mr. H., I have, I fear, almost tired you, at least
I should fear it on any other subject. I wish you had
told me a great deal more of you and yours; pray do this whenever your pen has not
better employment, for I am truly interested in your happiness. Have you any
pupils, or any more, for I think you had one when last I
heard from you? I hope your solitude will cease to be
solitary sooner than you imagine. Excuse this
tedious long letter, and
Believe me, Ever very truly yours, A. L.
P.S.—Lady B.
writes me word she never saw her father and mother so happy: that she
believes the latter would go to the bottom of the sea herself to find fish
for B.’s dinner, that he (B.) owns
at last that he is very happy and comfortable at Seaham, though he had pre-determined to be very miserable. In some of her
letters she mentions his health not being very good, though he seldom
complains, but say’s both that and his spirits have been improved by
some daily walks she had prevailed on him to take; and attributes much of
his languor in ye morning and feverish feels at
night to his long fasts, succeeded by too hearty meals for any weak and empty stomach to
bear at one time, waking by night and sleeping by day. I flatter myself her influence will prevail over these bad
habits. They had been playing the fool one evening, ‘old and young.’ B.
dressed in Lady M.’s
long-haired wig (snatched from her head for the
purpose), his dressing-gown on, turned wrong-side out; Lady B. in his
travelling-cap and long cloak, with whiskers and mustachios. What a long
P.S.!
Six Mile Bottom: Saturday, March 18.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—I would not have delayed answering your letter even
one post, but with the hope of procuring you a more
welcome reply than mine can possibly be. I flatter myself, however, that before
this letter comes to an end you will pronounce me a more agreeable
correspondent than you expected to find me, for I’ve nothing but agreeables to communicate, on a subject of the greatest
interest to you as well as to me. B. and
Lady B. arrived here last Sunday, on
their way from the North to London, where they have taken a very good house of
the Duke of Devonshire in Piccadilly. I
hope they will stay some days longer with me, and shall regret their departure,
whenever it takes place, as much as I now delight in their society. B. is
looking particularly well, and of Lady B. I scarcely know
how to write, for I have a sad trick of being struck dumb when I am most happy
and pleased. The expectations I had formed could not be
exceeded, but at least they are fully answered. I think I never saw or heard or read of a more
perfect being in mortal mould than she appears to be, and scarcely dared
flatter myself such a one would fall to the lot of my dear B. He seems quite
sensible of her value, and as happy as the present alarming state of public and the tormenting uncertainties of his own
private affairs will admit of. Poor Newstead is still unsold, and it seems
doubtful whether Claughton can complete
the purchase. Now, dear Mr. H., for the subject of your letter,1 which distresses me only as it appears so distressing
to you. I can assure you, with the utmost truth, that I do not even see the shadow of a foundation for your apprehensions. The night
before your letter arrived, B. was talking of you in the most friendly and
affectionate of terms, describing you in the highest possible of praise to Lady
B., talking over our sèjour at Hastings, and, among other things, I have treasured the following as
most satisfactory to you. He said that in all the years he had been acquainted
with you he never had had a moment’s disagreement with you: ‘I
have quarrelled with Hobhouse, with
everybody but
1Hodgson had expressed anxiety lest he should in
some manner have offended Byron,
who had not written to him for some months.
Hodgson,’ were his own words. When I
received your letter I showed it to him and Lady B. He first exclaimed,
‘Oh dear! do tell him I am married and cannot write. I have not
answered a single letter since that event;’ and begged I would
tell you that he was not, could not be angry. Indeed I
would not deceive you on this point, and I can well enter into your fears, they
are too like my own whenever he is unusually silent to me. Lady
B. has done her best to procure you a few lines of consolation
from himself, but you know him too well to expect much from persuasion or
entreaty till the lazy fit is over. I have just asked
him for a message, and am desired to tell you he does not write because he is
‘lazy and has got a wife.’ Many thanks for your kind inquiries. My
bairns are well, and delighted at being able to scream ‘Oh,
Byron!’ again, and approve much of their new
aunt. I am not quite sure that Georgiana is not a little jealous of this formidable rival in
B.’s affections. Adieu, dear Mr. H.! this is a long epistle, but you will
forgive me, and
Believe me, Most sincerely and truly yours, Augusta Leigh.
Col. L. is in the North.
Six Mile Bottom: March 31.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—Byron and
Lady B. left me on Tuesday for London. I
will forward your letter to him by this post. I am a little puzzled how to
answer your queries about Mr. H., but I will tell you all I know, which is that
by Mr. Hobhouse’s advice, his affairs and Mr.
Hanson’saccounts are to be
put into the hands of another professional man, whose name at this moment I
forget. Mr. H. has not yet delivered up his accounts, consequently all remains
in uncertainty. I think B. and Lady B. both suspect all
has not been right, but, of course, judgment must be suspended till proof is obtained. There are circumstances strongly against Mr. H.
B. will probably write to you immediately. He talked of it
while here after I received your last letter; which was the cause of my being silent. I was well aware one word from him
would do more towards quieting your alarms than pages from me. I am sorry to
say his nerves and spirits are very far from what I wish them, but don’t
speak of this to him on any account. I think the uncomfortable state of his
affairs is the cause; at least, I can discern no other. He has every outward
blessing this world can bestow. I trust that the Almighty will be graciously
pleased to grant him those inward feelings of peace and calm which are now
unfortunately wanting. This is a subject which I cannot dwell upon, but in
which I feel and have felt all you express. I think Lady B. very judiciously abstains from pressing the
consideration of it upon him at the present moment. In short, the more I see of
her the more I love and esteem her, and feel how grateful I am and ought to be
for the blessing of such a wife for my dear, darling B.
You may be perfectly easy about B.’s friendship
towards you. I am positive there is not a shadow of a cause for fidget. This I
could better explain were you here at this moment, but do at least believe that
I would not deceive you on this subject—the last on which I could bear to
be deceived (even from motives of kindness) myself. When you have leisure write
to me, and do tell me all the good you can of yourself and your prospects, and
be assured that they will ever be most interesting to
Yours very truly and sincerely, A. L.
13 Piccadilly Terrace: Saturday evening, April 29.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—I am desired by B. to write you a few lines of
recommendation for your new pupil to convey to you. I cannot make out exactly what I am to say except that Mr. H. was desirous
B. should write to recommend him to you,
and that he is as usual lazy, and wishes me to tell you
he would have written, but that Lady B. has
been unwell, and her uncle died last week.
I am sure you will be glad to hear that I think her better, and that B. is very
well.
Now for the pupil. To the best of B.’s knowledge and belief he is excessively clever, but
rather behind-hand from a long vacation of fourteen months. He is to be brought
up to the Bar, and nobody can bring him there so soon as you, B. says.
Yours very sincerely, Augusta Leigh.
I am allowed to add a P.S. to excuse myself for writing
such a stupid letter, it being B.’s dictation. One word of common-sense. B. desires
me to add Lady B. is ———, and that
Lord Wentworth has left all to her
mother, and then to Lady B. and children; but B. is, he says, a ‘very miserable dog’ for all
that!
Six Mile Bottom: September 4, 1815.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—I am quite ashamed when I think how very long your last kind letter has re-mained unanswered. I have no excuse to offer but its
having reached me at a time of much hurry and confusion, which has been
succeeded by many events of an afflicting nature, and compelled me often to
neglect those correspondents to whom I feel most pleasure in writing. Having
apologised as well as I am able, I must trust to your indulgence for my pardon,
and proceed to congratulate you and Mrs.
Hodgson upon an event which I see announced in the newspaper,
and which from my heart I wish may be productive of all the happiness this
world can bestow. Indeed, I cannot express with how much pleasure I read the
paragraph, and thought of your first and dearest wish being realised.
My brother has just left
me, having been here since last Wednesday, when he arrived very unexpectedly. I
never saw him so well, and he is in the best spirits, and desired me to add his
congratulations to mine upon your marriage. I was in hopes you might have seen
him in London, as Col. L. informed me he
had the pleasure of meeting you.
I will not now tire you with a longer letter, but must add
that I always look forward with great pleasure to the hope of seeing you again,
and renewing my acquaintance with Mrs.
Hodgson. In the meantime, believe me, with
every good wish to you both,
Yours most sincerely, Augusta Leigh.
P.S.—I forgot to say when on the B. subject, that
he gave me the best accounts of Lady
B.’s health.
The next letter was written three weeks after the final departure of
Lady Byron from her husband, when the fatal
separation, though not quite inevitable, was alarmingly imminent.
13 Piccadilly Terrace: Wednesday, February 7 (1816).
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—Can you by any means contrive
to come up to Town? Were it only for a day, it might be
of the most essential service to a friend I know you love and value. There is
too much fear of a separation between him and his wife. No time is to be lost,
but even if you are too late to prevent that happening
decidedly, yet it would be the greatest comfort and
relief to me to confide other circumstances to you, and consult you; and so if
possible oblige me, if only for twenty-four hours. Say not a word of my summons; but attribute your coming, if you come, to
business of your own or chance. Excuse brevity. I am so perfectly wretched I can only say
Ever yours Most truly, Augusta Leigh.
It is probable I may be obliged to go home next week. If
my scheme appears wild, pray attribute it to the state of mind I am in.
Alas! I see only ruin and destruction in every shape to one most
dear to me.
Hodgson at once responded to this appeal by taking
the first stage-coach to London, where the next letter was addressed to him at his lodgings
near Piccadilly.
How very good of you, dear Mr.
Hodgson! I intend showing the letter to B., as I think he will jump at seeing
you just now, but I must see you first; and how? I am
now going to Mr. Hanson’s from B.
I’m afraid of your meeting people here who do no
good, and would counteract yours; but will you call about two or after
that, and ask for me first? I shall be home, I hope, and
must see you. If I’m out ask for Capt. B.
Yours sincerely, A. L.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—I’ve been unable to write to you till this
moment. Mr. H. stayed till a late hour, and is now here again. B. dined with me, and after I left the room I sent
your note in, thinking him in better spirits and more free from irritations. He
has only just mentioned it to me: ‘Oh, by the bye, I’ve had a note
from H., Augusta, whom you must write to and say I’m
so full of domestic calamities that I can’t see anybody.’ Still, I
think he will see you if he hears you are here, or that
even it would be better, if the worst came to the worst, to let the servant
announce you and walk in. Can you call here about eleven tomorrow morning, when
he will not be up or scarcely awake, and Capt.
B., you, and I can hold a council on what is best to be done?
The fact is, he is now afraid of everybody who would
tell him the truth. It is a most dreadful situation, dear Mr. H.! The worst is
that if you said ‘you have done so and so,’
&c., he would deny it; and I see he is afraid of your
despair, as he terms it, when you hear of his situation, and, in
short, of your telling him the truth. He can only bear to see those who flatter
him and encourage him to all that is wrong. I’ve not mentioned having
seen you, because I wish him to suppose your opinions unprejudiced. You must see him; and pray see me and George
B. to-morrow morning, when we will consult upon the best means.
You are the only comfort I’ve had this long time. I’m quite of your opinion on all that is to be feared.
Ever yours truly, A. L. Friday evening, 9 o’clock.
Dear Mr. H.,—About three you will be sure of finding
me, if not sooner. I’ve sent in your letter; he said in return I was to
do what I pleased about it. I think and hope he will find comfort in seeing you.
Yours truly, A. L. Piccadilly Terrace.
Dear Mr. H.,—B.
will see you. I saw him open your note, and said I had given his message this
morning, when I had seen you and talked generally on the subject of his present
situation of which you had before heard. He replied, ‘Oh, then, tell
him I will see him certainly; my reason for not was the fear of distressing him.’ You
had better call towards three, and wait if he is not yet out of his room.
Mr. Hanson has sent for me in
conse-quence (probably) of your interview. I’m
going to him about three with Capt. B., but
have said nothing to B. of this.
Ever yours, A. L. Saturday.
Immediately after the interview, which took place on the day after the last
note was written, Hodgson, feeling that nothing
could be lost and that much might be gained by judicious remonstrance, resolved to hazard
an appeal to Lady Byron’s feelings; with what
success will be seen from her Ladyship’s reply. It is impossible to over-estimate the
combined tact and zeal displayed by Hodgson in this most delicate and
difficult matter.
Whether I am out-stepping the bounds of prudence in this
address to your Ladyship I cannot feel assured; and yet there is so much at
stake in a quarter so loved and valuable, that I cannot forbear running the
risque, and making one effort more to plead a cause which your Ladyship’s
own heart must plead with a power so superior to all other voices. If, then, a
word that is here said only adds to the pain of this unhappy conflict between
affection and views of duty, without lending any weight of reason to the object it seeks, I would
earnestly implore that it may be forgiven; and, above all, the interference
itself, which nothing but its obvious motive and the present awful
circumstances could in any way justify.
After a long and most confidential conversation with my
friend (whom I have known thoroughly, I believe, for many trying years), I am
convinced that the deep and rooted feeling of his heart is regret and sorrow
for the occurrences which have so deeply wounded you; and the most unmixed
admiration of your conduct in all its particulars, and the warmest affection.
But may I be allowed to state to Lady Byron
that Lord B., after his general
acknowledgment of having frequently been very wrong, and, from various causes,
in a painful state of irritation, yet declares himself ignorant of the specific
things which have given the principal offence, and that he wishes to hear them;
that he may, if extenuation or atonement be possible, endeavour to make some
reply; or, at all events, may understand the fulness of those reasons which
have now, and as unexpectedly as afflictingly, driven your Ladyship to the step
you have taken.
It would be waste of words and idle presumption for me,
however your Ladyship’s goodness might be led to
excuse it, to observe how very extreme, how decidedly irreconcilable such a
case should be, before the last measure is resorted to. But it may not be quite
so improper to urge, from my deep conviction of their truth and importance, the
following reflections. I entreat your Ladyship’s indulgence to them. What
can be the consequence, to a man so peculiarly constituted, of such an event?
If I may give vent to my fear, my thorough certainty, nothing short of absolute
and utter destruction. I turn from the idea; but no being except your Ladyship
can prevent this. None, I am thoroughly convinced, ever
could have done so, notwithstanding the unhappy appearances to the contrary.
Whatever, then, may be against it, whatever restraining
remembrances or anticipations, to a person who was not already qualified by sad
experience to teach this very truth, I would say that there is a claim paramount to all others,—that of attempting to save
the human beings nearest and dearest to us from the most comprehensive ruin
that can be suffered by them, at the expense of any suffering to ourselves.
If I have not gone too far, I would add that so suddenly
and at once to shut every avenue to re-turning comfort, must, when looked back upon, appear a strong measure; and,
if it proceeds (pray pardon the suggestion) from the unfortunate notion of the
very person to whom my friend now looks for consolation being unable to
administer it, that notion I would combat with all the energy of conviction;
and assert, that whatever unguarded and unjustifiable words, and even actions,
may have inculcated this idea, it is the very rock on which the peace of both
would, as unnecessarily as wretchedly, be sacrificed. But God Almighty forbid
that there should be any sacrifice.
Be all that is right called out into action, all that is
wrong suppressed (and by your only instrumentality, Lady Byron, as by yours only it can be) in my dear friend. May
you both yet be what God intended you for: the support, the watchful
correction, and improvement of each other! Of yourself, Lord B. from his heart declares that he would wish nothing
altered—nothing but that sudden, surely sudden, determination which must
for ever destroy one of you, and perhaps even both.
God bless both!
I am, with deep regard, Your Ladyship’s faithful servant, Francis Hodgson.
Lady Byron’s answer was as follows:—
Dear Sir,—I feel most sensibly the kindness of a
remonstrance which equally proves your friendship for Lord Byron and consideration for me. I have declined all
discussion of this subject with others, but my knowledge of your principles
induces me to justify my own; and yet I would forbear to accuse as much as
possible.
I married Lord B.
determined to endure everything whilst there was any
chance of my contributing to his welfare. I remained with him under trials of
the severest nature. In leaving him, which, however, I can scarcely call a voluntary measure, I probably saved him from the
bitterest remorse. I may give you a general idea of what I have experienced by
saying that he married me with the deepest determination of Revenge, avowed on
the day of my marriage, and executed ever since with systematic and increasing
cruelty, which no affection could change. . . . . My security depended on the
total abandonment of every moral and religious principle, against which (though
I trust they were never obtruded) his hatred and endeavours were uniformly
directed. . . . . The circumstances, which are of too convincing a nature,
shall not be generally known whilst Lord B. allows me to spare him. It is not
unkindness that can always change affection.
With you I may consider this subject in a less worldly
point of view. Is the present injury to his reputation to be put in competition
with the danger of unchecked success to this wicked pride? and may not his
actual sufferings (in which, be assured, that affection for me has very little
share) expiate a future account? I know him too well to dread the fatal event
which he so often mysteriously threatens. I have acquired my knowledge of him
bitterly indeed, and it was long before I learned to mistrust the apparent
candour by which he deceives all but himself. He does
know—too well—what he affects to inquire.
You reason with me as I have reasoned with myself, and I
therefore derive from your letter an additional and melancholy confidence in
the rectitude of this determination, which has been deliberated on the grounds
that you would approve. It was not suggested, and has not been enforced, by
others; though it is sanctioned by my parents.
You will continue Lord
Byron’s friend, and the time may yet come when he will
receive from that friendship such benefits as he now rejects. I will even
indulge the consolatory thought that the remembrance of
me, when time has softened the irritation created by my presence, may
contribute to the same end. May I hope that you will still retain any value for
the regard with which
I am, Your most obliged and faithful servant, A. I. Byron. Kirkby: Feb. 15, 1806.
I must add that Lord
Byron had been fully, earnestly, and affectionately warned
of the unhappy consequences of his conduct.
It is most unfortunate that the second letter which Hodgson wrote on this most distressing occasion is lost,
but some clue to its contents may be gathered from Lady
Byron’s reply:—
February 24, 1816.
Dear Sir,—I have received your second letter. First
let me thank you for the charity with which you consider my motives; and now of
the principal subject.
I eagerly adopted the belief of insanity as a consolation;
and though such malady has been found insufficient to prevent his
responsibility with man, I will still trust that it may latently exist so as to acquit him towards
God. This no human being can judge. It certainly does not destroy the powers of
self-control, or impair the knowledge of moral good and evil.
Considering the case upon the supposition of derangement:
you may have heard, what every medical adviser would confirm, that it is in the
nature of such malady to reverse the affections, and to make those who would
naturally be dearest, the greatest objects of aversion, the most exposed to
acts of violence, and the least capable of alleviating the malady. Upon such
grounds my absence from Lord B. was
medically advised before I left Town. But the advisers had not then seen him,
and since Mr. Le Mann has had
opportunities of personal observation, it has been found that the supposed
physical causes do not exist so as to render him not an accountable agent.
I believe the nature of Lord
B.’s mind to be most benevolent. But there may have been
circumstances (I would hope the consequences, not the
causes, of mental disorder) which would render an
original tenderness of conscience the motive of desperation—even of
guilt—when self-esteem had been forfeited too far.
No external motive can be so strong. Goodness of
heart—when there are impetuous passions and no
principles—is a frail security.
Every possible means have been employed to effect a private
and amicable arrangement; and I would sacrifice such advantages in terms as, I
believe, the Law would ensure to me, to avoid this dreadful necessity. Yet I
must have some security, and Lord B. refuses
to afford any. If you could persuade him to the agreement you would save me
from what I most deprecate. I have now applied to Lord
Holland for that end.
If you wish to answer—and I shall always be happy to
hear from you—I must request you to enclose your letter to my father,
Sir Ralph Noel, Mivart’s Hotel,
Lower Brook Street, London, as I am not sure where I may be at that time.
My considerations of duty are of a very complicated nature;
but my duty as a mother seems to point out the same conduct as I pursue upon
other principles that I have partly explained.
I must observe upon one passage of your letter, that I havehad (sic) expectations of personal violence, though I was too miserable to
have feelings of fear, and those expectations would now be still stronger.
In regard to any change which the future state of Lord
B.’s mind might justify in my intentions, an amicable
arrangement would not destroy the opening for reconciliation. Pray endeavour to
promote the dispositions to such an arrangement; there is every reason to
desire it.
Yours very truly, A. I. Byron. The Rev. F. Hodgson.
CHAPTER XV. LETTERS FROM MRS. LEIGH—COMMENTS ON THE SEPARATION. 1816-1818.
Soon after the separation had actually taken place, and
Byron had left his native land for ever, his
faithful friend and devoted sister resumed their correspondence on the same sad subject.
Six Mile Bottom: June 10.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—Your kind letter found me here, and was most
acceptable, for I began to marvel at your silence. But don’t suppose this
to be a reproach, for I know how numerous must be the claims and calls upon
your time, and I feel how kind you are to devote any part of it to me. I
don’t know why I should intrude on you so soon again, except that you
desire I will write, or that I can tell you of B.’s safe arrival at Geneva. I have not had any letter
since that from Coblentz, dated 11th May, which I believe I mentioned in my
last to you. But Mr. Hobhouse has heard twice since that, and
always communicates to me when he does so of his health and safety. Of myself I
can tell you little that will give you satisfaction, except that I am pretty
well, only weak and nervous, and no wonder, for none can know how much I have suffered from this unhappy business.
I have written to Mr.
Hobhouse to know what this new publication1 means, and to hope it is nothing that can revive the dying embers.
Would that I could talk to you! I think it might calm my mind; it is impossible
by letter to give you any idea of the proceedings and confusion after you left
Town. I suppose you have heard of Lady C.
L.’s extraordinary production—‘Glenarvon,’ a novel.
The hero and heroine you may guess; the former painted in the most atrocious
colours. If you have not, pray read it. You foretold
mischief in that quarter, and much has occurred, if only that I hear this horrid book is supposed and believed a true delineation
of his character; and the letters true copies of
originals, etc., etc., etc.! I can’t think of her with Christian charity, so I won’t dwell upon the subject, but pray read it. I had a letter from
1 The ‘Farewell,’ the ‘Sketch,’ and the
‘Dream.’
Lady B. the other day. She is at Kirkby, and
I fear her health is very indifferent. The bulletins of the poor child’s health, by B.’s desire,
pass through me, and I’m very sorry for it, and that I ever had any
concern in this most wretched business. I can’t, however, explain all my
reasons at this distance, and must console myself by the consciousness of
having done my duty, and, to the best of my judgment, all I could for the
happiness of both. Have you by chance, dear
Mr. H., some letters I wrote you in answer to some of
yours, and in favour of Lady B. and
her family? If you have, may I request you not yet to destroy them, and to tell
me fairly when you next write if you ever heard me say one word that could
detract from her merits, or make you think me partial to
his side of the question? Whatever ideas these
questions may suggest pray at present keep to yourself. I will, when I have an
opportunity, say what you wish to her in your own words. Many thanks for your
kind enquiries. My children, five, are all well.
Col. L. is in Sussex, and, perhaps,
may stay a short time. He is in dreadfully low spirits in consequence of
difficulties of our own, and altogether you would wonder at my being alive. But strength is given to us in proportion to our
trials. Whenever you have a
moment to spare, pray let me hear. You shall of dearest B. when I do; and with
best regards to Mrs. H.,
Believe me, ever truly yours, A. L.
Chair Court, St. James’s Palace: August 12, 1816.
Dear Mr. H.,—I have a frank, and no
time to write. What a trial of temper, particularly to a Byronic one!
I must say, however, how very glad I was to receive the
intelligence of your piece of good fortune, which followed me here, and I
wished to say so immediately, but my time is very little at my own disposal in
this land of confusion. I cannot tell you half my joy at
this (your living),1 and I have lost no time in sending
it to dear B., who is still near Geneva. Direct à Milord B., Poste Restante, à Genève en Suisse. I
heard from him (date 29 July) well—at least he says nothing to the
contrary—complains of the weather—has been visiting Madame de Staël, and so on. I’ve
not a moment now to write comfortably, so will only beg you and Mrs. H. to accept my best congratulations, and
good wishes and thanks for wishing to see me and mine in your new abode. I
should be delighted
1Hodgson had lately been presented to the living of
Bakewell.
to visit you anywhere. Your visit
to the dear Abbey interested me. I hear poor Murray is in a very declining state.
Adieu, dear Mr. H. I came here a month
ago for my Court duties, and shall perhaps remain in Town a week or two longer.
Can I do anything for you or Mrs. H.?
Pray command me if I can.
Ever very truly your obliged, Aug. Leigh.
Six Mile Bottom: Tuesday evening, October 29.
Dear Mr. H.,—I have many a time
resolved and intended to write to you, since my last promise to do so again,
but I have doubted how I ought to direct till the other day I heard from the
Dowager Duchess of Rutland that you
were settled at Bakewell. I took the opportunity of saying how much you had
been pleased and benefited by the D. of
R.’s kindness, which I thought was what you would wish me
to do; and I had the great pleasure of hearing all the
good (no not all) that I think of
you repeated, and how much her grandson liked being with you, etc., etc., etc.
My husband has just asked me to whom I
am writing, and desires me to say that the Duke of R. has spoken very kindly and
highly of you to him, and hopes to make your acquaintance very soon. And now, dear Mr. H., for our old subject, dear B. I wonder whether you have heard from him. My last
intelligence was of him through Mr.
Murray, who had a letter dated Martigny, 9th October, on his
road to Milan. The last to me was on the 2nd October from Geneva, and sending
me a short but most interesting journal of an excursion to the Bernese Alps. He
speaks of his health as very good, but, alas! his
spirits appear wofully the contrary. I believe, however, that he does not write
in that strain to others. Sometimes I venture to indulge a hope that what I
wish most earnestly for him may be working its way in his mind. Heaven grant
it!
Mr. Davies,1
perhaps you have heard, has come home. He was with B. at Geneva, and gives very good accounts of his health and
spirits, though he confesses he found him gloomy.
Mr. Hobhouse is still with him. He
has not mixed much in society; report says from
necessity, his friends from choice. You may have heard
also that another Canto of ‘Childe Harold’ is about to appear. From the little I know of
it I wish it may not contain allusions to his own domestic concerns, which had
better have been omitted; and I fear he indulges
1Scrope
Davies.
in that bitter strain which must be so galling to the
feelings of the friends of poor Lady B. I
believe I have not written to you since I had the pleasure of seeing her and
the dear little girl in London. She was looking a little better, but I am sorry
to say her health is very indifferent still, and I
cannot but feel great uneasiness about her. The little girl is a very fine child, but with more resemblance to mother
than father; still there is a look. I never saw a more healthy little thing. It
was a melancholy pleasure to see it, and a very great comfort to see dear
Lady B., for I had suffered great uneasiness, of which
I think I gave you hints, and this has been entirely removed.
Wednesday.
I will finish my letter in hopes of a frank, and have to add
that this day’s post has brought me one from B. of the 15th Oct., telling me of his having passed the
Simplon safely, and arrived at Milan. He appears delighted with the beauty of
the scenery on his road, and was seeing all worth seeing at Milan. He writes
cheerfully. Now adieu, dear Mr. H.
With best regards to Mrs.
H.,
Believe me ever yours sincerely, A. L.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—I am so glad of an excuse to write to you, that I
avail myself of that of our last letters having crossed,
and there being many points in yours upon which mine would not satisfy you. To
begin with dear B. The last tidings of him
were from Milan, the 13th October, having just arrived there without disasters,
or encounter of robbers on the Simplon. The style struck me as being more
cheerful than former letters. I told you something, and indeed I daresay all I
know, of the Canto, etc. I see
they make their appearance on the 23rd. The story of their being sent to
Lady B. I think I may safely say is
untrue. She was, as well as me, on the eve of leaving Town when Murray received them, and he paid her the compliment of showing them. I think he had scarcely
time to look them over. This may by some means have been twisted into the tale
you have heard; but perhaps you had better keep my information to yourself. I am afraid to open my lips, though all I say
to you I know is secure from misinterpretation. On the opinions expressed by
Mr. M. I am not surprised. I
have seen letters written to him which could not but
give rise to such, or confirm them. If I may give you mine, it is that in his own mind there were and are recollections, fatal
to his peace, and which would have prevented his being
happy with any woman whose excellence equalled or approached that of
Lady B., from the consciousness of being unworthy of
it. Nothing could or can remedy this fatal cause but the consolations to be
derived from religion, of which, alas! dear Mr. H., our
beloved B. is, I fear, destitute. My anxious prayer for him, is for that first
and only certain good, and I should be wretched indeed
bereaved of hope on that subject. His friends (who for
the most part are more or less deceived about him) argue thus: ‘Oh! had
he married a woman of the world, she would have let him have his way, and have
had hers—and they would have done very well;’ and this is worldly
reasoning. I happen to know that dear Lady
B. would have sacrificed all her own tastes and pursuits,
everything but her duty, to make him happy; but all was
in vain: it is indeed a heart-breaking thought! And worse than all, not all my
affection or anxiety can be either of use or comfort to him. I shall pain you
as much as I feel it myself, but it is a relief to talk of him to one who loves
him and feels so rationally at the same time all there is to hope and fear for him. I’m sure it is
very useless to try to express my feelings towards him—I never could. Pray read over the 17th, 18th, and 19th stanzas of
‘Lara;’ they are
quite wonderfully resemblant. Sometimes it strikes me he must have
two minds! Such a mixture of blindness and
perception! I don’t know whether you can understand me. Pray always say
anything that you wish and think about him.
Nov. 14.
I am obliged to finish this letter, which was begun some days
ago, rather in haste, for a frank and the post. I hope you will give me the
pleasure of hearing from you when you can. B. desires me to direct to him ‘à Genève, Poste
Restante.’ His banker there forwards his letters. I quite dread the Poems. So afraid of their renewing unpleasant
recollections in the public mind, and containing bitterness towards her who has
already suffered too much. Mind, whatever you hear pray tell me. B. has once or
twice said he thought of returning to England in the spring; but I don’t
indulge much hope on the subject, nor do I know that it would be desirable. You
have probably heard by this time all that is known about the dreadful fire at
B. Castle:1 I felt so sorry for it, as knowing the
duke and duchess, and the
1 Belvoir.
latter being so attached to it. I should indeed delight in
paying you and Mrs. H. a visit, but with
five children to nurse and educate you will feel
that I cannot make any long or distant absence from home. Our plans are,
however, in great uncertainty, as our place is for sale, and if we could get a
purchaser we must go somewhere. If ever I go north, it shall not be without at least a call at
Bakewell. I hope Mrs. H.’s health will not suffer
from the cold climate. I passed seven years of my life, from six years old to
thirteen, about seven miles from Chesterfield, at a village called Eckington,
and well remember the coal pits! My children are all well, thank God! Col. L. desires his best compliments.
Ever very truly yours, A. L.
Pray write to B. I
have much more to say, but cannot say it now.
Six Mile Bottom: Tuesday evening, March 4, 1817.
Dear Mr. H.,—Thank you many thousand times for your
very kind and most welcome letter, which followed me to Town, where I went on
the 6th and remained till the 24th of February, on Court duty. I am sure if I had followed my
inclination it would not have remained even thus long unanswered, for indeed I
feel all the friendship and kindness which prompts you to bestow any portion of
your precious time upon me. As the only return, except my thanks, which I am
able to make you is giving you all the information I receive about our dear
B., I will begin by that subject of our
mutual interest. From him I have not heard for nearly
five weeks, and his letter was dated the 13th January. Of him I have heard a little later accounts. Mr. Murray showed me a letter to him dated the
24th of January, and I believe Mr. Moore
has heard since that. I am daily hoping to do so, for any unusual silence puts
me into a fidget. His last letters have been uncomfortable. In one of them, after giving me the history of a new attachment, he says, ‘and tell Hodgson his prediction is fulfilled; you
know he foretold I should fall in love with an Italian, and so I
have.’ I should prefer giving you a more agreeable message, dear
Mr. H., but I don’t like to withhold any of his
words to you. As for the circumstance it alludes to, it
is only one among a million of melancholy anticipations
of mine, for the evils always arise fast and soon enough, it is not always easy
to wait for their arrival; at least I don’t find it
so. He has not lately to me recurred to the intention of returning to England,
but I hear it is circulated by his friends—or soi-disant tels—for which, however, I suspect motives, and still doubt on the
subject. Upon the whole, my opinion is that greater evils are to be apprehended
from his immediate return than his continued absence, but God knows! I may be
wrong. You, who know how ardently I wish him every good,
will enter into all my anxieties. He has lately given himself and others much
needless worry on the subject of the poor dear little girl. Somebody wrote—I believe merely as a piece
of gossiping news—that Lady B.
intended to pass this winter abroad, which occasioned a letter addressed to me
by B. to be despatched with all speed, insisting upon a promise that the child
should never leave England. Of course I transmitted the message. The answer
was, Lady B. had never had any intention of quitting
England. This did not satisfy, and several others have followed. At last, thank
Heaven, the business is transacted through Mr.
Hanson, and Lady B. has declined answering
through me; much to my satisfaction, as I cannot do any good in it.
It appears that the child is a ward in
Chancery, which I
must own I consider fortunate as things are at present. I did not know it till
I went to Town, where I most unexpectedly met poor Lady
B., who had come there on this business. You will be glad to
hear that she looked much better and, I hope, is really stronger, and gradually improving in health, though still quite
unequal to hurry and agitation of any kind. I told her of your request that I
would inform you of her health, and she desired me to say she felt much
gratified by the kind interest you express for her. The little girl was left at Kirkby, as she came
but for a few days, but is quite well, and, I hear, a very fine child. It makes
me wretched to think of her, and I’m sure of your sympathy in such a
feeling. We can, indeed, only pray and trust Heaven for our dear B. If I hear soon from him you shall know what he
says.
I am glad you were rather agreeably surprised in the Poems. I
own I was so; but the different opinions, and
impressions, and reflections of different people are enough to drive one mad.
Your approbation of the lines on poor Major
Howard (our very particular friend)
delighted me very much. They were what I was most anxious should be approved.
Of course you know to whom the ‘Dream’1 alludes,
Mrs. C———. I am
very much of your opinion on all the points of your observation. Have you seen
the Reviews? The ‘Quarterly’ has given great offence to all those who call themselves Lady
B.’s friends and party. It only appears to me that such
discussions would be better omitted, and that the
‘Edinburgh’ has
most wisely done. B.never mentions Newstead; I dare not ask for fear of hearing it is
gone. I, too, have an atom of your ‘indefinite hope,’ but I never
venture to express it except to you. It makes me unhappy to think of what you
feel about dear B.’s silence; but I am sure, in spite of this, your
friendship is valued as much as ever.
We are not likely to remove till May or June, so pray direct
as usual whenever you have a moment to spare, and, believe
me that I am always most delighted to receive a
letter from you. My children are well; Georgey is really a very dear little girl. You will easily
believe that my hands are quite full, with five to teach
and nurse. But it is fortunate I have such an imperious demand upon my time and
attention. I do not know what
1Mrs.
Leigh here must either mean Miss Chaworth, afterwards Mrs.
Musters, or must have written the ‘Dream’ for the
‘Sketch,’ and have meant Mrs.
Clermont, Lady
Byron’s confidential maid.
otherwise would have
become of me with the source of wretchedness about poor dear B. Col. Leigh desires me most particularly to
present his best regards to you, and Georgey desires her
love.
Ever yours most sincerely, A. L.
26 Great Quebec Street, Montague Square: April 21, 1818.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—Your kind letter, which travelled a little in pursuit
of me, began with the very sentence I have been thinking of writing you for an
age at least! It appeared to me very long since I had heard of or from you, so
I was for ever intending and wishing to write, but I had
so little to say on what is most interesting to you,
poor B.’s subject. He was nine long
months silent to me, and you know that in spite of all one’s reason one
must feel such a silence very much. However, he has written at last, making
many lame excuses for not doing so during that period. I could wish not to be
selfish on this subject, and I have long been too sure that I can neither do or
say anything for his comfort. Indeed, dear Mr. H., I
don’t know who can in his very unhappy state of
feeling and perverted way of thinking. His letters to me
being unreserved on such points, give me more pain than pleasure. He is still
at Venice. I believe he meets Mr. Hanson
at Geneva to sign and seal away
poor dear Newstead. Alas! A Major
Wildman has bought it for £90,000 or guineas, I forget
which. Sixty thousand pound was secured by his marriage settlements, the
interest of which he receives for life, and which ought to make him very
comfortable. There was a mortgage, as I’ve heard, of £20,000 on the
estate, and the remainder will pay off debts; so that, looking to his immediate
comfort, we may consider the sale as a fortunate circumstance. But I am sure,
dear Mr. H., you will enter into the feelings of all who regret that beloved Abbey for
its own sake.
‘Beppo’ is his, at least; though he has
never said so, one may infer it from a thousand things. The 4th Canto is forthcoming, and I rather dread
it for fear of more bitterness on the old subject. Lady
B. is at Kirkby Mallory, in Leicestershire, but writes me word
she intends being at Seaham during the summer months. She was some time ago in
very bad health, but I am happy to hear now better than for some time past. The
little girl is always well, and
represented as the finest and most intelli-gent child it is possible to meet with. I hear
different reports as to her beauty; some people say there is a strong
resemblance to her father. I am glad to find you are about to appear in the
shape of the ‘Friends.’ Pray let me hear from you whenever you can spare a
moment. I am always anxious to receive good accounts of your and Mrs. H.’s health and welldoing, and am
sincerely grateful to you both for your kind thoughts of me. I have this house
merely as a temporary habitation, and am hoping for a more fixed residence. You
shall hear if I have any good to relate. My husband has been in the country
some weeks on hunting excursions, but I am sure will join with me in all that
is kind to you and yours, and Georgiana desires to do so. Adieu! my dear Mr.
H. Pray excuse the hurry in which I end this, having been
interrupted. I forgot or omitted to say, for our
comforts, that Major Wildman
has, I hear, soul enough to value the dear Abbey and its ruinous perfections:
so much so that he would not remove a stone, and wishes to restore it as far as
he can. I hope this report is true. He was aide-de-camp to the Marquis of Anglesea at the Battle of Waterloo,
and this is the extent of my savoir on this subject.
Pray give my best remembrances to Mrs. H., and believe me
Most truly yours, A. L.
St. James’s Palace: December 30, 1818.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—I have very long been reproaching myself for my
silence towards you, and your kind letter really fills me with remorse. I well
recollect my promise of writing should I have good to relate, and, having been
eight months established in apartments of my own here, contrary to my most
sanguine expectations and hopes, it appears to me downright ingratitude to have
omitted telling one who would have rejoiced so sincerely in my good fortune. I
can only confess my fault and beg forgiveness. A hundred times at least have I
resolved upon despatching an epistle to Bakewell, and always something or other
has interfered with my resolve. But I won’t trouble you with excuses, but
proceed to thank you a thousand times for your kind indulgence and interest. It
would give me the greatest pleasure, dear Mr. H., to make
you a visit according to your kind invitation, and Col. L. will, I am sure, feel as grateful as I do. He is now at
Belvoir Castle. If I could find myself there during some of your holidays I surely should be tempted to
extend my trip to your vicarage. But, alas! at present I am so beset with
bairns of one age or other, it is difficult to leave or take them about.
However, let us hope, and I do, that you and Mrs. H. will never come south without
remembering I am to be found here, and should be so
happy to see you. Of our poor dear B. I have
received two letters within this last year—the last dated September. This
is all I can tell you from him: that he wrote (as usual
to me) on the old subject very uncomfortably, and on his present pursuits,
which are what one could but dread and expect of him. I hear he looks very
well, but fat, immensely large, and his hair long. Mr. Hanson
has lately returned from Venice, having been there to sign and seal away our
dear lamented Abbey. He left him well on the 19th November, but with no
intention of a return to England. I have not seen Mr. H.,
he wrote this to me; but no letter from B. So you see I must have patience as
well as you. I have heard from a friend of B. that it is the intention of
Mr. Kinnaird and Mr. Hobhouse to take the affairs out of
Hanson’s hands. If all that is said is true so
much the better. I hear, too, that Fletcher is coming home, that B. writes in good spirits, but that he is sure to do to those
correspondents. There are some poems forthcoming—God knows what—but
I will write to you again soon. I am vexed at your hint from the Midland
County; and, do you know, I never allow myself to believe such things except
from you, or one as candid and well acquainted with both sides of the question.
Is the initial of the name D. or M. or C.? I have three guesses. God bless you,
dear Mr. H. With kindest remembrances and wishes for your
welfare and happiness,
I remain, Yours most truly, A. L.
The preceding letters have been given consecutively, without more comment
than was absolutely required for immediate illustration, in order that the narrative which
they so graphically relate might not be interrupted, and that the fresh light which they
throw upon the much vexed question of Lord and Lady Byron’s separation might not for a moment be
obscured by the clouds of unnecessary observation. But a collective consideration of their
general import, no less than of the significance of certain particular sentences, will
probably suggest to the minds of most
readers reflections of a similar nature; while, on the one main subject of discussion,
which for upwards of half a century has provoked so many differences of opinion, and given
rise to such a multitude of surmises, all more or less preposterous—some positively
grotesque in their monstrosity—on the doubt which has hitherto existed whether the
cause of the separation was one great crime or a concurrence of conflicting circumstances,
these letters afford plain and unanswerable evidence. The truth of Lord
Byron’s own oft-quoted statement that ‘the causes were too
simple to be easily found out’ is amply attested by these letters; and the
idea of some secret enormity, too horrible for Lady Byron to mention,
must henceforth and for ever be abandoned by all unprejudiced persons.
What, then, were the incompatibilities, magnified by Lady Byron’s persistent silence into one unutterable
criminality, which destroyed the domestic happiness of these two highly-gifted beings?
Among the chief causes of disagreement it appears that it will not be wrong (however
material such a consideration may seem) to place the condition of the noble poet’s
health, both at the commencement, and, with short intervals, during the continuance, of his
married life. The melancholy and dejection which were more plainly
visible at this than at any other period of his existence, were, doubtless, to a very great
degree, the result of his eccentric mode of living, his long fasts followed by excessive
feasts, his ‘sleeping by day and waking at nights,’ to which his sister alludes
with such tender solicitude. The state of nervous depression, which was the necessary
result of these irregular habits, increased the natural irritability of his temperament to
such an extent as to render him more than ever liable to those violent outbursts of passion
which may fairly be termed hereditary, inasmuch as they appear to have been extraordinarily
akin to those which were so painfully characteristic of the only parent whom he ever knew.
This was remarkably true of the effect produced upon him by Kean’s acting, his mother having been affected in a similar manner by
Mrs. Siddons; of the passionate destruction of
an old and favourite watch, by dashing it into the fire-place; of his throwing a jar of ink
out of his window at Hastings—a circumstance well remembered by Hodgson, who was staying in a neighbouring house.1
Such frantic paroxysms of passion, occasioned by
1 This jar alighted upon a figure of a muse in the garden
beneath the poet’s window, and for some time afterwards traces of this
poetical outburst were visible.
the most trivial circumstances, could be
ascribed to physical derangement alone, even if we were not aware that his health was,
about the time of their occurrence, in a most disordered state. Those who really knew him
well, and understood the peculiarities of his marvellous organisation, were wont to treat
these ebullitions with the ridicule which they deserved, and which was their surest
preventive. Scrope Davies’ sensible remark on
such behaviour, that it was more like silliness than madness, was received by Byron with the candour and kindliness with which it was made.
But Lady Byron had not so read her
husband’s character. Accustomed to draw her conclusions with mathematical accuracy
from the premisses placed before her, she was incapable of making allowance for the
slightest deviation from the precise code of morals which she had adopted as her infallible
standard of propriety. Thus she mistook her husband’s genuine candour for hypocrisy,
and regarded the character which he so foolishly assumed as really belonging to him. She
was quite young, only twenty-four, at the time of the separation, but she was, like her
husband, an only child, and while he, partly through his love of mystery and the strange
fondness for representing himself as far worse than he really was, had
gained as unenviable a notoriety for his private character as his public reputation as a
poet was brilliant, she had been accustomed from childhood to the homage of a circle of
admiring friends, who looked up to her as a personification of unerring virtue and
exemplary rectitude. Her interest in metaphysical speculations had also apparently been
fostered by a natural propensity for investigating individual motives, and sifting the
sources of human conduct. In these researches, moreover, she appears to have been guided by
certain fixed rules, and to have adhered to the convictions thus engendered with invincible
obstinacy. This was undeniably true on other occasions, and not only in one instance was
her apparent caprice most unjustifiable. William
Howitt has placed on record the story of a schoolmaster, whom she appointed
at Kirkby Mallory and subsequently dismissed without notice, and without assigning the
slightest reason for her sudden determination. Another story bears striking testimony to
the fact of her inability to appreciate beauty beyond the ordinary channels of her own
conceptions. A lady was talking to a gardener who was engaged in reducing a wild and
straggling garden to order, and who had formerly been employed in Lady
Byron’s service. On seeing a beautiful flower in full bloom on a neglected pathway he observed, with
a shrewd perception of character which was most remarkable, ‘Lady
Byron would have called that a weed.’ On the other hand, it
must not be forgotten that her ideas of moral excellence were so pure and lofty as to
occasion her inexpressible horror at anything approaching to a violation of the most rigid
decorum, and she must have shrunk with instinctive delicacy from many expressions which to
her husband’s enlarged experience were comparatively innocent.
Another source of disputation was the subject of religion, on which she
appears to have been as intolerant as he was culpably compliant. He doubted everything; she
would countenance nothing which was beyond the pale of her individual prejudices. He was
still, perhaps unconsciously, influenced by that gloomy Calvinism which veiled the
brightness of his boyhood; she was inclined to Socinianism. He considered his salvation
hopeless; she knew that she was saved.
Nor must we lose sight of those pecuniary difficulties which, entirely in
consequence of mismanagement, caused him at this trying time such unceasing annoyance, and
involved the sale of that ancestral home to which he was so ardently attached. Nor, again, is it possible for an impartial observer to doubt that the
spirit which prompted so mighty a genius to condescend to the scathing satire of the
‘Sketch,’ was not a spirit
of unreasoning malevolence. By those who take an unbiassed view of all the circumstances of
the case the conclusion cannot be reasonably avoided that Mrs.
Clermont, the confidential attendant of both Lady Milbanke and her daughter, whether by means of insinuations and
innuendoes or by a more direct retaliation for the undisguised dislike which Lord Byron manifested towards her, was largely instrumental in
effecting that fatal breach, destined for ever to divide two noble natures which, after a
few short years of mutual forbearance, might have been united in perfect harmony to the
happiness and improvement of each other.
With regard to her parents, it is easy enough to understand, and impossible
not to admire, Lady Byron’s anxiety, doubtless
perfectly sincere, to shield them from the imputation of having in any way interfered in
the matter; but it is not so easy to believe that Byron,
who was not at all naturally inclined to take strong dislikes to men or women, should have
been deceived into the belief that they were interested in the separation, unless they were
indeed in some way concerned in it. Certain it is that it was only by a sustained effort that he could
accommodate himself to the prosaic mode of existence which they had adopted by preference,
to their dislike for all that was poetical, to the unbending regularity of their habits, to
the monotony of egotism in which his father-in-law daily indulged, to the solitary walks
which his wife recommended, and the dull games of cards which, with the best intentions,
were prescribed for the occupation of his evenings.
But when every due allowance has been made for the tedium of his visits to
Seaham, and for the want of genial sympathy and cordial appreciation of his character in
all its strength and weakness displayed constantly by his wife, it is still, of course,
impossible to palliate the culpable folly which induced him to threaten her with acts of
violence, and to give the reins to his wanton love of mischief, when he must have seen that
his ill-chosen jests were entirely misunderstood. But, on the whole, it is difficult to
understand by what chain of reasoning Lady Byron
contrived to reconcile her sense of duty with the Apostolic injunction, ‘Let not
the wife depart from her husband.’ No one was more ready than Byron himself to admit his excessive irritability, and the
criminal extravagances into which his fondness for mystifying and startling others too
often betrayed him. Hodgson, in his letter to Lady
Byron, was evidently authorised to express his friend’s deep sorrow
for ‘the occurrences which had so deeply wounded her,’ the most generous
acknowledgment of his admiration of her goodness, and the warmest affection. It was only
when her cold and immovable self-will had resolutely resisted all attempts at
reconciliation, and she had sanctioned by her silence the most infamous calumnies, that the
bitterness of his soul found a vent in satire against her whose memory, in his heart of
hearts, he cherished with tender regret until the day of his death.
With every attribute of moral excellence, enhanced by education and
restrained by the most absolute self-control, Lady
Byron’s otherwise perfect womanhood was marred and defaced by the want
of that one ‘sweet weakness,’ the divine power of forgiveness. Her
Christianity, otherwise complete, was rendered imperfect by the conspicuous absence of two
most essential qualities: the one humility, the other charity. It is impossible to imagine
that she ever entertained for her husband any feeling worthy of the sacred name of love,
any sentiment deeper than regard and interest. She herself states that she married him with
the settled determination to endure everything, and this is further corroborated by Mrs.
Leigh’s remark that ‘she (Lady
Byron) seemed to set about making him happy in the right way.’ But
what grounds had she for trusting so confidently to her own powers, what right had she to
stand before God’s altar and solemnly declare that she would love, honour, and obey
the man whom she had resolved merely to reform?
That Lady Byron did at first
contemplate a reunion as within the bounds of eventual possibility is proved by the
concluding sentence of those letters to Hodgson,
which, though enigmatical enough in parts, have yet sufficient clearness to prove the
vindictive spirit of wounded pride which prompted her to complete the massacre of her
lord’s moral nature by deliberately dissecting it, and which rendered all attempts at
reconciliation wholly ineffectual. But of such a reunion, if early effected, what might not
have been the results? Lady Byron might have been a happy wife and
mother, the honoured companion of the greatest genius of his age and country; while he
might have achieved a nobler fame as an orator, a statesman, and a philanthropist, even
than that imperishable glory which his own and all succeeding generations have accorded to
him as a poet. And what was the miserable alternative? To her a weary widowhood, during
which she continually brooded over the subject of the separation until
the wild conjectures of others mingled with the strange hallucinations of her own troubled
fancy combined to produce a condition of mental delusion which her most intimate
acquaintances regarded as a species of monomania; to him the despair of that better life
for which his marriage had reawakened the desire, the severance of all home affections,
perpetual exile, utter desolation of spirit, a premature and lonely death in a strange
land.
From the part played in this terrible tragedy by his loving sister and by
the truest and most loyal of friends it is manifest that if anything could have averted the
impending disaster it would have been the judicious zeal of their united efforts in the
cause of affection and of friendship.
CHAPTER XVI. ORDINATION—CURACY—LIVING—POEMS—LETTERS FROM
BYRON FROM RAVENNA—HIS OPINION OF
HODGSON’S POETRY—LETTERS FROM MRS.
LEIGH, MOORE, AND MONTGOMERY. 1815-1822.
In the autumn of 1815 Hodgson was ordained to the curacy of Bradden in Northamptonshire, where he
took pupils. In less than a year from his ordination, through the influence of his kinsman
D’Ewes Coke of Brookhill in Derbyshire, he
was presented to the living of Bakewell by the Duke of
Rutland, who answered his letter of thanks as follows:—
Brighton: July 18, 1816.
Sir,—I can assure you that it was wholly unnecessary
for you to take the trouble of making a formal acknowledgment of the trifling
service which it has been in my power lately to render you; and indeed I have
my reward in the conviction which I feel, that in being
the cause of your promotion to the vicarage of Bakewell, I am doing an
essential benefit to the interest of religion by placing so excellent an
incumbent in a living where such a character is highly desirable.
I have the honour to be, Sir,
Your most obedient and humble servant, Rutland.
Hodgson’s ministry at Bakewell—the
metropolis of the Peak, as it has been appropriately designated—lasted for upwards of
twenty years, and is still remembered with fondness by several surviving parishioners. Many
and lasting were the benefits which by his tact and energy he conferred upon the parish and
its neighbourhood.
The first year and a half of the new incumbency was entirely absorbed in
clerical duties; but poetical reveries soon returned, and fancy found a congenial sphere of
labour in the romantic scenery of the Peak.
In the spring of 1818 a poem entitled the ‘Friends’ was published by John Murray and favourably noticed by the reviews.
Besides the delineation of a friendship pure and unalloyed by selfish
ambitions, this poem contains many very beautiful
descriptive passages. Some of the most remarkable features in the scenery of Derbyshire, of
Devonshire, and of Wales are portrayed with picturesque simplicity, and the mutual
interests of the friends are made the occasion for introducing comments upon literature and
science.
Among those who pronounced favourable opinions on the ‘Friends’ were Byron and Gifford, the
latter of whom liked it better than any other of Hodgson’s compositions.
Later in this year (1818) appeared another poem, entitled ‘Childe Harold’s Monitor, or Lines
occasioned by the last Canto of Childe Harold, including Hints to other
Contemporaries.’ This satire is declared by the ‘Monthly’ to display much spirit, sound sense, and
judicious criticism. Its general drift and purpose are explained to be an endeavour to
counteract the existing tendency to conceits and extravagances, and to induce a closer
adherence to classic models.
In the notes particular attention is called to some of the more recent
defects of style noticeable in Lord Byron’s latest
poems, while due honour is paid to several passages of especial power and beauty. The
Monitor’s jealous regard for the poetic fame of his friend led him to reprove
unsparingly the imperfections of the period by which he fancied that even Byron, whom he elsewhere denominates the first of living minstrels,
had been infected.
Although Harold (he writes) has
ever been a chartered libertine of language, yet his former Spenserian vagaries and
obsolete quaintnesses were occasional and venial indeed compared to his later and more
systematic violation of the true tone of poetic diction, to his rambling metaphysical
sentences of broken prose, borrowed from some of the most worthless of his
contemporaries. . . . That magnificent and sublime poetical abstraction, the third
canto of ‘Childe Harold,’
is throughout disfigured by these newly adopted affectations; ‘Manfred’ absolutely teems with them; and even
the ‘Lament of Tasso,’ of
the correct, the classical Tasso, breathes too
much of this sort of rambling, familiar, prosaic versification; which if it is not an
exhalation from the Limbo of Vanity, ought, assuredly, to be wafted thither from our
purified atmosphere. . . . There are few things more mortifying to a sincere lover of
poetry than the overclouding of a splendid passage by some sudden shade of vicious
metre or defective language. That Harold’s occasional
images, even in his idlest moments, are as brilliant as ever, nobody can deny; but long
indulgence and the unaccountable imita-tion of inferior writers (like
the bird who spoils his own natural melody by catching the discordant notes of his
neighbours) have, assuredly, deteriorated his style to a most lamentable degree. Thus
the far-famed description of Beauty pleading for Peace in the arms of War, in the first
book of ‘Lucretius,’ is imitated by
Harold in his fourth
canto; and, in the midst of some very fine writing, we are frozen and burnt
at once with the Italian conceit of an ‘urn’ showering out kisses,
‘lava kisses,’ upon the unfortunate homicide in question. Concerning
‘Beppo’ the less that is
said the better.
As specimens of Harold’s purer
style, his Monitor quotes with cordial admiration the sublime verses on Rome and her
vanished greatness, and the beautiful picture of the Apollo Belvedere in the fourth canto
of the ‘Pilgrimage,’ the former
being considered his chef-d’œuvre. When referring to his
earlier poems, Hodgson thus notices the lines on
Newstead quoted in a former chapter:— Not this thy note in youth’s aspiring day, When holy Newstead claim’d thy filial lay; And through her venerable turrets heard A musical, a melancholy bird, A nightingale o£ sadness breathed the strain, For days of glory ne’er to dawn again. Chap. viii. p. 198. A fitting tribute is also paid to the grandeur of the descriptions of the ocean, about
which there is declared to be a freshness, a life, a tumult, a majesty that could only be
inspired by the deepest admiration of the sea and all its glories.
On the recklessness of speculation and the want of moral tone and purpose
noticeable in so many contemporary writings, and tending to inspire a contempt for all
obligations which must be unfavourable to morality and happiness, Hodgson comments with a severity which might with
advantage be applied to more modern productions. The recollection, he writes, of everyone
will suggest an ample quantity of plays, poems, and novels to justify this strain of
satire; and again: ‘If besides the foreign stock of irreligious energy, selfish
sensibility, and adorned licentiousness imported into our literature in the most popular
works alluded to above, disgracefully imitated by many of our own authors, we take into
consideration the influence of scientific and philosophical writings (falsely so called)
which have so frequently been debased into vehicles of immoral poison, it will be difficult
to estimate the degree of mischief done to society by the extrava-gant and guilty compositions of that exotic genius which,
in these later days, has been transfused into England. While every age and class, and
particularly the young of both sexes, have been taught by the former publications to
sympathise with the misfortunes of courageous scoundrels and interesting adulteresses; in
the latter, the pert sciolist and the soidisant philosopher have imbibed little messes of scepticism, exactly cooked to the capacity
of their digestion; and the exploded arguments of earlier infidels have been presented to
the ignorant anew, under the unsuspected shape of lectures or of essays. The well-earned
praise, so universally bestowed upon the popular writings here alluded to, is of itself a
reason for plainly pointing out their great and pervading defect. If they might not have
been written in the best days of heathen morality, it is only because they have derived an
unacknowledged improvement from that Christianity, which, with an equal want of candour,
wisdom, and piety, they studiously endeavour to exclude from their ample extent. Considered
merely as pictures of life, drawn in the present century, and in the most favoured part of
the world, they must, with all their merits, be pronounced imperfect pictures; for (thank
God) our country is not that region of professed impiety which these
entertaining and clever productions would seem to imply. Should any readers be startled at
this charge against a favourite author, let them consider whether a studiously attempted
exclusion of all religious motives, feelings, and principles from a vast variety of
characters, does not justify what has here been hazarded on the subject. It is, however,
with sincere satisfaction observed that in the last of these works there are indications of
a maturer and happier reflection.’
Some subsequent lines on Pope
elicit the following remarks from the ‘Literary Journal’ in its review of ‘Childe Harold’s
Monitor’:—‘No passage in the little work before us has
struck us as more strongly marked with that nervous poetry, and varied, correct, and
bold and tuneful versification, which characterises this poem than the one in which the
author attempts to rescue Pope from the incessant sneers with
which the reputation of that great writer is at present assailed. Our poet, in this
place, as in many others, works like a master. He has felt that, as the “sound
should be an echo to the sense,” so, as a more general rule, the
thoughts, the versification, the feeling, the style, and the imagery should have an
aggregate correspondence with the subject. He has felt that to vindicate in verse the
verse of Pope it was proper that the critic
should show even himself to be a poet worthy of the task upon his hands, and also that
he should artfully win upon us, in behalf of his favourite, by bringing him and his
manner to our recollection.’
Soon after the publication of these poems, Byron wrote two letters from Ravenna, which not only evince the continued
cordiality of his friendship, but afford a pleasing proof of the kindliness with which he
received adverse criticism from a friend, and of that quieter and more chastened spirit
which appears to have influenced the last few years of his existence upon earth.
Ravenna: 10bre 22, 1820.
My dear Hodgson,—My sister
tells me that you desire to hear from me. I have not written to you since I
left England, nearly five years ago. I have no excuse for this silence except
laziness, which is none. Where I am my date will tell you; what I have been
doing would but little interest you, as it regards another country and another
people, and would be almost speaking another language, for my own is not quite
so familiar to me as it used to be.
We have here the sepulchre of Dante and the forest of Dryden and Boccaccio,
all in very poetical preservation. I ride and write, and
have here some Italian friends and connections of both sexes, horses and dogs,
and the usual means and appliances of life, which passes chequered as usual
(and with all) with good and evil. Few English pass by this place, and none
remain, which renders it a much more eligible residence for a man who would
rather see them in England than out of it; they are best at home; for out of it
they but raise the prices of the necessaries and vices of other countries, and
carry little back to their own, except such things as you have lately seen and
heard of in the Queen’s trial.
Your friend Denman is
making a figure. I am glad of it; he had all the auguries of a superior man
about him before I left the country. Hobhouse is a Radical, and is doing great things in that
somewhat violent line of politics. His intellect will bear him out; but, though
I do not disapprove of his cause, I by no means envy him his company. Our
friend Scrope is dished, diddled, and
done up; what he is our mutual friends have written to
me somewhat more coldly than I think our former connections with him warrant:
but where he is I know not, for neither they nor he have informed me. Remember
me to Harry Drury. He wrote to me a year ago to
subscribe to the Harrow New School erection; but my name has not now value
enough to be placed among my old schoolfellows, and as to the trifle which can
come from a solitary subscriber, that is not worth mentioning. Some zealous
politicians wrote to me to come over to the Queen’s trial; it was a business with which I should have
been sorry to have had anything to do; in which they who voted her guilty cut
but a dirty figure. . . . Such a coroner’s inquest upon criminal
conversation has nothing very alluring in it, and I was obliged to her for
personal civilities (when in England), and would therefore rather avoid sitting
in judgment upon her, either for guilt or innocence, as it is an ungracious
office.
Murray sent me your ‘Friends,’ which I
thought very good and classical. The scoundrels of scribblers are trying to run
down Pope, but I hope in vain. It is
my intention to take up the cudgels in that controversy, and to do my best to
keep the Swan of Thames in his true place. This comes of Southey and Wordsworth and such renegado rascals with their systems. I hope
you will not be silent; it is the common concern of all men of common sense,
imagination, and a musical ear. I have already written
somewhat thereto and shall do more, and will not strike soft blows in a battle.
You will have seen that the ‘Quarterly’ has had the sense and spirit to support Pope in an
article upon Bowles; it is a good beginning. I do not know
the author of that article, but I suspect Israeli, 1 an
indefatigable and an able writer. What are you about—poetry? I direct to
Bakewell, but I do not know for certain. To save you a double letter, I close
this with the present sheet.
Yours ever, B.
Ravenna: May 12, 1821.
Dear Hodgson,—At length your two poems have been sent. I have read
them over (with the notes) with great pleasure. I receive your compliments
kindly and your censures
temperately, which I suppose is all that can be expected among poets. Your
poem is, however,
excellent, and if not popular only proves that there is a fortune in fame as in everything else in this
world. Much, too, depends upon a publisher, and much upon luck; and the number
of writers is such, that as the mind of a reader can only contain a certain
quantum of
1Isaac
D’Israeli, father of the present Premier.
poetry and poets’ glories, he
is sometimes saturated, and allows many good dishes to go away untouched (as
happens at great dinners), and this not from fastidiousness but fulness.
You will have seen from my pamphlet on Bowles that our opinions are not
very different. Indeed, my modesty would naturally look
at least bashfully on being termed the ‘first of living minstrels’
(by a brother of the art) if both our estimates of ‘living
minstrels’ in general did not leaven the praise to a sober compliment. It
is something like the priority in a retreat. There is but one of your
‘tests’ which is not infallible: Translation. There are three or
four French translations, and several German and Italian
which I have seen. Moore wrote to me
from Paris months ago that ‘the French had caught the contagion of
Byronism to the highest pitch,’ and has written since to say that nothing
was ever like their ‘entusymusy’ (you remember Braham) on the subject, even through the
‘slaver of a prose translation:’ these are his words. The Paris
translation is also very inferior to the Geneva one, which is really fair,
although in prose also. So you see that your test of ‘translateable or
not’ is not so sound as could be wished. It is no pleasure, however, you
may suppose, to be criticised through such a translation,
or indeed through any. I give up ‘Beppo,’ though you know that it is no more than an imitation
of Pulci and of a style common and
esteemed in Italy. I have just published a drama, which is at least good
English, I presume, for Gifford lays
great stress on the purity of its diction.
I have been latterly employed a good deal more on politics
than on anything else, for the Neapolitan treachery and desertion have spoilt
all our hopes here, as well as our preparations. The whole country was ready.
Of course I should not have sate still with my hands in my breeches’
pockets. In fact they were full; that is to say, the hands. I cannot explain
further now, for obvious reasons, as all letters of all people are opened. Some
day or other we may have a talk over that and other matters. In the meantime
there did not want a great deal of my having to finish like Lara.
Are you doing nothing? I have scribbled a good deal in the
early part of last year, most of which scrawls will now be published, and part
is, I believe, actually printed. Do you mean to sit still about Pope? If you do, it will be the first time. I
have got such a headache from a cold and swelled face, that I must take a
gallop into the forest and jumble it
into torpor. My horses are waiting. So good-bye to you.
Yours ever, Byron. Two hours after the Ave Maria, the Italian date of
twilight.
Dear Hodgson,—I have taken my canter, and am better of my
headache. I have also dined, and turned over your notes. In answer to your
note of page 90 I must remark from Aristotle and Rymer, that the hero of
tragedy and (I add meo pericolo) a tragic poem must be guilty, to excite
‘terror and pity’, the end of tragic
poetry. But hear not me, but my betters.
‘The pity which the poet is to labour for is for the criminal. The terror is
likewise in the punishment of the said criminal, who, if he be
represented too great an offender, will not be
pitied; if altogether innocent his punishment will be
unjust.’ 1 In the Greek Tragedy
innocence is unhappy often, and the offender escapes. I must also ask you
is Achilles a good character? or is even Æneas anything but a successful runaway?
It is for Turnus men feel and not for
the Trojan. Who is the hero of ‘Paradise Lost’? Why Satan,—and
1Dryden’s
Life, Johnson’s
Lives, page 203, &c.
Macbeth, and Richard, and Othello,
Pierre, and Lothario, and Zanga? If you talk so I shall ‘cut you up like a
gourd,’ as the Mamelukes say. But never mind, go on with it.
In a letter to Drury, Hodgson writes:—
I have lately heard from Byron. He
wrote in the best manner of old, a letter equally good-humoured and clever. How
exquisitely amusing is part of his letter about poor Bowles! Yet in many parts of the real argument
Bowles, I think, has decidedly the best.
In this celebrated letter
of Byron on the ‘Pope and Bowles Controversy,’
an opinion is expressed on the merits of the school of poetry to which Hodgson belonged, which may not be considered
inappropriate to the present chapter.
The disciples of Pope were
Johnson, Goldsmith, Rogers, Campbell, Crabbe, Gifford, etc., to whom
may be added Heber, Bland, Hodgson, Merivale, and others, who have not had their full fame
because the race is not always to the swift nor the battle to the strong, and because
there is a fortune in fame as in all other things. . . . I will conclude with two quotations, both intended for some of my old
classical friends, who have still enough of Cambridge about them to think themselves
honoured by having had John Dryden as a
predecessor in their college, and to recollect that their earliest English poetical
pleasures were drawn from ‘the little nightingale of Twickenham.’ The first
is from the notes of the poem of the ‘Friends.’ ‘It is only within the
last twenty or thirty years that those notable discoveries in criticism have been
made which have taught our recent versifiers to undervalue this energetic,
melodious, and moral poet. The consequences of this want of due esteem for a writer
whom the good sense of our predecessors had raised to his proper station have been
numerous and degrading enough. This is not the place to enter into the subject,
even as far as it affects our poetical numbers alone, and there is matter of more
importance which requires present reflection.’ 1
These sentiments Byron himself
endorses with his customary emphasis in a letter to Murray quoted by Moore:—
1 This note is on the following line:— ‘And Dulness thrives, for Pope
is now no more.’
I have read Hodgson’s
‘Friends.’ He is
right in defending Pope against the bastard
pelicans of the poetical winter day, who add insult to their parricide by sucking the
blood of the parent of English real poetry—poetry without
fault—and then spurning the bosom which fed them!
Hodgson writes again in a similar strain in a note
to another poem entitled ‘Sæculo Mastix,’ and published a year later than the ‘Friends’:—
The irreconcilable enmity of all dullards, past, present, and to
come, against the brilliant wit of Pope is the
true secret of the impotent attacks upon that unassailable reputation. ‘The
strong antipathy of good to bad’ did not more distinctly separate his higher
qualities from the mean-spirited and dishonourable than his rapid and bright
imagination opposed him to the slow, the heavy, and the stupid. They howled at his
light, as a dog howls at the moon; and (as suggested by Warburton) gave equal evidence to its lustre.
‘Sæculo
Mastix;’ or, ‘The Lash of the Age we Live in,’ was a severe
but temperate satire on the many and various vices which disgraced the first decade of the
present century. Its object was the reformation of Religion, Literature, and Society by exposing in their true colours
the most notorious defects of each; and its design includes many wise suggestions, some of
which have long since been adopted. Among those which have received more recent recognition
may be mentioned a proposal to convene a general convocation of the clergy for the
settlement of more important subjects of current discussion, after the manner of the modern
Church Congress. To such assemblies a very common objection is anticipated. ‘Oh!
you would open the door to all sorts of disputes,’ To this objection Hodgson sensibly replies: ‘Unfortunately the
door is opened already; and it is to settle such disputes for ever, within the pale of
the Establishment, that the measure seems advisable. Will it be denied that the present
Articles of the Church of England are interpreted in a diametrically opposite sense by
numbers of her own members? Is it not possible, by revision, most patient and most
cautious, and by adaptation of these Elizabethan sentences to the present frame and
character of the English language, to prevent the possibility of subscription by any
Jesuitical interpreters; and to brand with everlasting infamy those who dare to preach
against the doctrines of the Church into which they have solemnly entered?’
‘Aye, but the Doctrines themselves.’ ‘Well, let them be examined by the most competent judges; let the history of the Reformation
be thoroughly canvassed; and let the reference to the whole contexture and spirit of
the New Testament be full and frequent. The result no real lover of the Church of
England can anticipate with any other feelings than those of hope and humble
exaltation. Meanwhile, “Mussat Doctrina,” Fidesque Vera timet.’
The concluding sentence of the notes strikes the key-note of the poem in
the expression of an earnest wish that, while innovation on the one hand may cease to be
mistaken for amendment, on the other no obstinate adherence to every outward feature of old
institutions may retard their restoration to their real design and character.
Soon after Byron’s first letter
to Hodgson from Ravenna, Mrs. Leigh writes from London:—
St. James’s Palace: February 7, 1821.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—I have received the book through Murray, a short time after the arrival of your
kind letter. Whenever I have had anything to forward Mr.
Murray has been my resource, and I suppose there can be no
objection to my sending it through him, not saying from whom I received it, as I have often those sorts of
commissions. I have sent to ask him if he knows of any early opportunity, and
pray never suppose that apology is needful, for making me either of use or
comfort, if that is possible. I do not know a word as to B.’s probabilities of remaining or not at
Ravenna. He has not lately said anything to me of his intentions on those
subjects, but I recommend you to direct your letter to him there paste restante, or I will enclose it in one of mine
if you please. Many thanks, dear Mr.
H., for your kindness in giving me such early information of the
pleasing contents of your despatch from B. I wish he
communicated more frequently with one who is so truly his friend, but I look
upon his doing so now as a good symptom among some others which I have lately
remarked. Whether it amounts to more than being in good humour I cannot
determine; but I am (luckily for myself) of a hoping
disposition, and I trust it is. not presumptuous to do so in this instance.
I am so hurried for post, having been interrupted, that I
can only say, truly yours,
A. L.
In 1816, soon after Hodgson’s appointment to the vicarage of Bakewell, Byron had written to Moore (with whom Hodgson had already a slight
acquaintance) in a vein of mingled cordiality and banter, which was not uncommon to him.
I hear that Hodgson is your
neighbour, having a living in Derbyshire. You will find him an excellent-hearted
fellow, as well as one of the cleverest; a little, perhaps, too much japanned by
preferment in the Church and the tuition of youth, as well as inoculated with the
disease of domestic felicity, besides being over-run with fine feelings about woman and
constancy (that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such
counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal); but otherwise, a very worthy man, who has
lately got a pretty wife, and (I suppose) a child by this time. Pray remember me to
him, and say that I know not which to envy most—his neighbourhood, him, or you.
The result of this communication was a correspondence between Moore and Hodgson,
carried on in a desultory manner for some years, of which some remaining letters may be
found interesting. The first two refer to the publication of ‘Lalla Rookh.’
Ashbourne: March 6, 1817.
My dear Sir,—I received your letter yesterday evening
on my return from town, where I have been for these ten days past, giving
myself up ‘à tous les diables’ of
Paternoster Row. I corrected a proof sheet before I left town, so you may
imagine the nervousness of my situation, as they say I must be out early in
May. Do pray to your friends the Muses for my safe deliverance. Nothing could
give me greater pleasure than the visit you propose, but every moment here will
be occupied till our departure, which must be on Tuesday next. I am desired,
however, by my friend, Mr. John Cooper
(with whom we are housed at present), to say that it will make him most happy
to see you here to a dinner and a bed on Monday next, and I most anxiously hope
you will accept of his invitation, as it is the only chance I shall have of
seeing you for Heaven knows how long. Pray come, and come early that we may
have a walk and talk together. I have had four or five letters from Lord Byron within these two months past. He is now
at Venice, and speaks much and warmly in his letters about you.
Hornsey: June 12, 1817.
My dear Sir,—Your letter has given me very great
pleasure, both from the welcome things it contains about my book and the proof
it affords that you are not angry with me for my seeming neglect of the first
with which you favoured me. But I was really so hard run as I approached the
goal (having gone to press with about a fourth of the book unwritten) that I
had not a minute to give for love or money, and was obliged to trust to the
good nature of my friends for forgiveness of the numberless omissions I was
guilty of.
It indeed delights me to find that you are pleased with the
Poems. Praise from you is fame, and I feel it accordingly. You will be glad
too, I am sure, to hear that I sell well, which is, after all, the great test
of success. No matter how good the blood is, if it doesn’t circulate,
it’s all over with the patient. But I am revising now for a third
edition!
Our friend Byron’s
‘Manfred’ will
be out in a few days. It is wilder than his wildest. ‘Enter Seven
Spirits.’ A friend of mine supplied their names, ‘Rum, Brandy,
Hollands,’ &c., &c. Glorious things in it though, as there needs
must in whatever he writes. What do
you think of the following quiet image for one of your sermons?— The sea of Hell, . . . which beats upon a living shore, Heap’d with the damn’d like pebbles.
He does not seem now to think of coming home. Has he written
to you?
We are romancing about a trip to Derbyshire in the autumn.
If we realise it, how happy shall I be to bring Mrs. Moore and Mrs.
Hodgson acquainted!
Ever yours very sincerely, Thomas Moore.
The following characteristic fragment was written after a visit to
Stoke,1 near Bakewell, where Mrs.
Robert Arkwright (née Fanny Kemble) was then
living. Hodgson had translated the ‘Meeting of the Ships’ into Latin
verse:—
How admirably you have Romanised my ‘Ships’! I assure you it gives the verses a
consequence in my eyes they never wore before. A thousand thanks to Mrs. Hodgson for the pretty air, which brought the
pianoforte at Stoke (with her stealing
1 A house most picturesquely situated among the
Derbyshire hills.
out of the corner to play it) vividly before my eyes. I wish I had
such neighbours to sing to. I have not sung to such an audience as I had at Stoke (even
taking into account two or three duchesses, etc. that lent me their ears after I left
you) ever since we parted.
Hodgson’s copious powers of conversation and
his genial, courteous manners made him a general favourite in society, and he was
frequently an honoured guest at Chatsworth, with whose princely owner he maintained a
cordial friendship for upwards of thirty years. Mrs.
Arkwright amusingly describes his popularity in a letter to his wife written
about this time.
My dear Mrs.
Hodgson,—I send you the cake I promised and a brace of
partridges, which I hope will prove better than the unfortunate moor game. We
dined at Chatsworth yesterday, and I heard of nothing from all the party
severally but Mr. Hodgson. The cutting
of his hair had not deprived him of the power of his mind. They were all
delighted with him, as I knew they would be; and the duke told me he regretted having lost a great deal of his
conversation, but that the ladies had torn him from him, and he cannot hear
unless one is close to him.1 He said they one and all beset him, and never lost
sight of him again for a moment. But when we meet I will tell you all. In great
haste,
Believe me yours very truly, F. Arkwright.
Among Hodgson’s neighbours
and correspondents at this period was James
Montgomery, the Moravian poet of Sheffield, whose labours in the cause of
freedom, and the grace and sweetness of whose lyrical compositions, deserved a more general
recognition than they received from his contemporaries. His verses the ‘Grave,’ beginning with those touching
lines, which are probably far better known than their author— There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found; They softly lie and sweetly sleep Low in the ground— are perhaps more often quoted than any other of his productions. But in the
‘Wanderer of
Switzerland,’ the ‘World
before the Flood,’ and many shorter pieces, there are many passages which,
while they
1 The late Duke of
Devonshire was distressingly afflicted with deafness.
breathe a spirit of fervent piety, are not wanting in poetical fire,
and are sufficient to rescue their writer from oblivion. When Hodgson
became acquainted with him Montgomery was editing the ‘Sheffield Iris,’ a paper which strenuously
advocated all measures conducive to the amelioration of the condition of the poorer
classes, and he had twice been imprisoned for publications which in those days of
restricted thought and narrow-minded prejudice were summarily adjudged to be libellous.
Hodgson was not slow to perceive the rare merit of a poetical
genius which had received such scanty appreciation from more common minds; and his
well-timed sympathy was warmly welcomed by the sensitive and earnestly pious disposition of
his brother-bard. An ode on the restoration of Greek independence, that soul-stirring cause
in which Byron was so soon destined to lose his life,
was sent by Hodgson as a contribution to the ‘Iris,’ and elicited the following letter from
Montgomery:—
Sheffield: April 16, 1822.
Rev. and dear Sir,—I did not acknowledge the kindness
of your former letter, enclosing the spirited ode to ‘the glorious
Greeks,’ because I would not unnecessarily trouble you, and I hoped that
some opportunity might fall in my way of personally expressing my sense of the obligation. At the
concert—where I had the pleasure to meet you—this was upon my mind;
and if my face could speak, I am sure your eye would have heard it say
‘thank you,’ though in the hurry of that strange evening, when,
under considerable bodily indisposition, both intellect and senses were
bewildered with the enchantment of Catalani’s song, the words which I meant to utter before
we parted never reached my tongue, and you were vanished before I discovered,
as usual, that with the best intentions in the world I do everything either in
the worst manner or not at all. Your second letter, accompanying another
patriotic ode—for patriotic it is from a scholar, the country of whose
heart is Greece; Greece in her glory, and Greece fallen, and above all Greece
about to rise again with the spirit that animated her of old—your second
letter, I say, accompanying that ode, and manifesting equal friendliness
towards one whom you only know in his most advantageous disguise, that of an
author, requires an explicit expression of gratitude, and this should have been
offered by the return of your messenger, had I been at home when your favour
arrived. I take, therefore, the earliest opportunity after my return from
Liverpool, where I was last week, to say that I am deeply
your debtor for the spontaneous and unmerited cordiality of your invitation to
better acquaintance. Should any occasion lead me into your neighbourhood, I
shall be happy to call and acknowledge personally the feelings which such
kindness could not fail to awaken in one who is tremblingly sensitive to
‘every touch of joy or woe,’ but who is
exceedingly—nervously—miserably, I may say—shy and fearful to
meet countenances which he does not see every day—even those of old
friends and near relatives. But I must not tell you all my folly and weakness
at once; you will soon see me through and through, for I am as transparent and
as frail too as a bubble, and if I am but touched unexpectedly I break. I know
you will forgive me if I say, in the ode which I have sent, that I shrink from
the sentiment so boldly and poetically expressed in the third stanza. The lines
perhaps are the best in the whole piece, but yet I wish you to alter them for
reasons which I need not explain—indeed which I cannot explain, except by
saying that the unqualified presumption that all who die in a good and glorious
cause are raised to ‘eternal heaven’ may be very much
misunderstood. The doctrine would be literally orthodox on the side of the Turks; but I fear that it might
be dangerous to affirm (though only under poetical license) the same on the
part of Christians, who may certainly be heroes and martyrs in the cause of
their country, but who are not therefore, without some
higher preparation of heart, made heirs of God and joint-heirs with Christ. The
frankness with which I mention this will prove that if you honour me with your
friendship and confidence, I shall not abuse it by meanness or insincerity.
Will you then have the goodness to reconsider this stanza; and if you adopt
fame or glory, etc. for heaven, I doubt not you may support the verse with
equal dignity, and give no offence to timid consciences like mine; and I am
neither afraid nor ashamed to confess that in things relating to eternity and
the issues of human life in reference to an immortal state hereafter, my
conscience is timid. Should you adopt this
recommendation, I shall with pleasure adorn a column of the ‘Iris’
with your splendid lines. Meanwhile I am, with great respect and esteem,
Your obliged friend and servant, J. Montgomery.
Among other subjects of mutual interest a curious comparison was made by
Montgomery between the
mental calibre of the Athenian people in the days of Pericles, and that of the peasantry who inhabit the ancient district of the
great county of York, still known as Hallamshire. Hodgson, whose knowledge of north countrymen was considerably increased by
subsequent experience, had, at this time, a strong and very natural prejudice in favour of
the Athenians—a prejudice met by Montgomery with arguments which
do equal credit to his benevolence and his patriotism. Whether his opinions are justified
by general observation must be left to the decision of the reader.
Reverend and dear Sir,—If the will were always to be
taken for the deed, I believe I should be set down for the best correspondent
in the world, but if the will must be judged by the deed, assuredly I should
pass for the worst; and yet in neither case would my friends do justice to
themselves or me, for in the first they would have nothing to forgive, and in
the second would forgive nothing. I cannot stay to explain the ambiguity of
this introduction, for I must proceed at once to state the case of debtor and
creditor, as it stands in my mind, between you and me, on the subject of a very
kind and valuable letter, received from you in February last. I
wished—for Fortunatus himself was not
a heartier wisher than I am, only not having his cap I cannot have my desire without a
further effort—I wished to answer that letter immediately, and I thought
that I could thus have answered effectually your very powerful objections
against some hazardous assertions of mine on the comparative state of
intelligence between the ancient people of Athens and the men of Hallamshire in
the present day. But at the very time, I was suddenly called upon to prepare,
at a few days’ notice, an opening lecture for our Institution. This, of
course, occupied my time intensely during the interval, and was no small
performance, for it took upwards of two hours in the delivery, and yet
comprehended only half the subject which I had meditated, and sketched out in
the rough draft. No sooner was this task completed, than I was required by the
Leeds Institution to furnish a paper which I had long promised. Accordingly I
set to work, and produced an essay nearly as long as my Sheffield lecture. Your
idle fellows work hardest when they are put to it, as cowards fight most
fiercely when there is no escape. Idleness is my constitutional and, by long
indulgence, my habitual infirmity also; so that I always toil like a
galley-slave, or sleep like an Indian when there is neither battle nor chace to
rouse him into activity. When I had achieved this second Hercu-lean feat for a pigmy mind, I really was so tired that I
determined to lie down and rest a while, let who would disturb me with claims
or duties unfulfilled. Since then I have been continually, and sometimes
overwhelmingly, exercised with other engagements, not directly literary, but
such as have required study and personal exertion, till both thought and
feeling, strength and courage, have seemed to fail, and I have been ready to
renounce everything beyond the more ordinary drudgery of newspaper editing.
This is an honest confession of the employment of my time since the receipt of
your letter, except that I have omitted to inform you that the said letter has
lain on my desk or been within reach of my hand all the while, and I have often
as resolutely purposed to answer it forthwith, as I have impotently wished that
I had answered it. This morning, having a few minutes thrown upon my hands,
which I was grievously tempted to throw away after millions of their
predecessors, in doing next to nothing—for nothing itself I cannot do
with all my powers of indolence—your letter suddenly cried out from under
the litter of papers that covered it, and demanded justice; its voice, which
had often been raised in vain on like occasions, was not to be resisted, and I
in-stantly complied; the more
readily, I must acknowledge, because I had long ago abandoned the first idea of
formally replying to your objections, and vindicating my sentiments. With the
same freedom, therefore, as the former were offered by you, I will make such
remarks as occur in noticing them here. I must, however, state, that a few days
after the receipt of your favour, I sent a verbal acknowledgment of it by
Dr. Knight, who incidentally told me
that he expected to see you soon, and it was with the less uneasiness of
conscience that I deferred a written reply till a more convenient opportunity.
Dr. Knight perhaps forgot to deliver my message, and I
never inquired after the fate of it. I only mention the circumstance to show
that not from the remotest deficiency either of respect or gratitude have I
remained so long, and perhaps so unpardonably, under the suspicion of both,
unless you have exercised the charity of hoping the best when only the worst
appeared. Better late than never, you may yet be kind enough to think.
You are aware, and I pretend not to conceal it, that in the
argument which I held on the occasion alluded to I was taking the part of an
advocate, whose duty it was to show to the utmost advantage the cause of his clients without the wilful violation of truth or justice.
The merits and claims of the Hallamshire people I therefore advanced as boldly
as I durst, while those of the ancients were only contingently introduced; and
though they were acknowledged to be transcendent, their superiority was lowered
as much as appeared to me consistent with fact, if not with the general
favourable prejudice, which all who are acquainted with Greek and Roman
history, but especially the learned, feel. In the latter class, of course, I
include you; and, though you may deem it miserable logic, I am disposed to
contend that you, with an intimate acquaintance and enthusiastic admiration of
the reliques of classic literature, have a bias on that side of the question
which disqualifies you from being a perfectly impartial judge, especially when
I consider that you are comparatively a stranger to the state of intelligence
among a population such as that in this neighbourhood. For more than thirty
years I have had opportunities of observing the indications of this with no
ordinary advantage, both under political and religious excitement. You will
acknowledge that into whatever extravagances weak men may be deluded on either
religion or politics, no two topics are calculated so suddenly and so greatly to
awaken and exercise the faculties of persons not early or severely disciplined
by a college education. The occupations of many of our artisans are favourable
to thought, and the bodily exercise of these is not such as to enervate those
who use it. Now, I have witnessed, formerly in political and latterly in
religious assemblies, nearly similar effects of popular eloquence on the minds
of all gradations of our artisans as you refer to in the case of the Athenians
under Pericles. It is not so uncommon a thing as mere scholars imagine, for men
in middling and humble life to enjoy and to understand intellectual displays
far above their own power of imitating, particularly when they come in the
captivating form of eloquence, with all its adventitious accompaniments at once
speaking to the eye, and the ear, and the mind. Pure English is intelligible
among all the peasantry from Berwick to Penzance, though not one in ten could
speak a sentence in it. This is a fact almost entirely overlooked by authors
and play-writers, who imagine that they must address the vulgar in the vulgar
tongue. In like manner, the meaning of the finest argument may be perfectly
comprehended by ordinary minds accustomed to thinking for
themselves in however humble a way; and the most elegant diction will yield
genuine delight to a popular audience of whom few, perhaps, could express
themselves grammatically. Nay, persons of very mean capacity can frequently
distinguish in common discourse between a good pronunciation, that is habitual
to the speaker, and an affected one in a half-learned coxcomb; and they will
instinctively prefer the former. There appears, therefore, nothing very
extraordinary in an Athenian audience hanging with rapture on the tongue of a
splendid and energetic orator, especially when we consider the corrupt and
servile character of that ‘fierce democratic’ (notwithstanding
their passion for glory), who of all the people of antiquity, except, perhaps,
the later Romans, were the readiest dupes and sycophants to any who could pay
the price of enslaving them. The bulk of the actual population were literally
slaves, and the rest were virtually so, in the best days of Greece. The vulgar
also were held in avowed contempt by the learned, which makes little in favour
of popular intelligence.
My own firm opinion is that among the ‘thinking
part,’ and it is now no small one, of the people in this country,
especially among religious persons, there is more practical and influential
knowledge than could be possessed by any heathen populace. This might require a
great deal of illustration (not by argument so much as facts) to convince one
who has not been long and intimately conversant with this numerous and
increasing proportion of our countrymen. This I have
been, and this, it is no disparagement to you as a minister in the Church to
say, you have not. You know these people only by report
and by books. Through such media they cannot be well known. I have never
pretended to compare those who are or have been great in Hallamshire with the
truly great and glorious names of antiquity. I have only ventured the opinion
that the middling and lower classes here are, on the average, quite equal in
intelligence to the corresponding ranks in Greece and Rome, and, so far as they
can be put in competition, I believe history will bear me out. I am compelled
to break off here.
Believe me truly and ever your obliged friend and servant,
J. Montgomery.
P.S.—With respect to Greek Tragedy, I think that
the best parts of Shakespeare would
surely be as good a test, both of taste and moral
feeling, in an audience, as those of Sophocles; and, from my recollection, the gallery critics
of Sheffield were wont to applaud most what was
best. No objection to the irregularity of
Shakespeare’s drama will invalidate this.
Even you would not argue that because French audiences can bear cold
declamation in an artificial tone for hours together, that they are
therefore more virtuous and intelligent than Englishmen who can appreciate
the exquisite nature and pathos of their own old writers, when brought home
to them by the consummate acting of John
Kemble and Mrs.
Siddons.
I don’t expect that you will be at the trouble of
answering this rhapsody; it will be quite enough if you read and forgive
it.
CHAPTER XVII. LETTERS FROM DENMAN, JOHN BIRD
SUMNER, DRURY, DEAN IRELAND,
HERMAN MERIVALE, AND THE DUCHESS OF
DEVONSHIRE—A TOUR IN YORKSHIRE. 1820.
Notwithstanding the various duties incidental to the position of
Vicar of Bakewell, and Surrogate of that portion of the diocese of Lichfield, Hodgson found time for the education of many private
pupils, all of whom regarded him with feelings of sincere respect and affection. Nor were
lighter obligations disregarded. A constant correspondence was kept up with numerous
friends, old and new; the agreeable society of the neighbourhood was fully enjoyed; and
every branch of ancient and modern literature was eagerly explored. Denman, in a letter to Merivale, about this period, writes that he has lately met
Hodgson, ‘the picture of health, and with a stock of learning (according to Bland) increased by his solitary life in the High Peak to a superhuman
extent.’ All movements which had for their object the improvement of the
intellectual, moral, or social condition of the poorer classes received cordial
co-operation from Hodgson, and the various Church Societies always
found in him an energetic supporter, his efforts being rendered more effectual by the ready
sympathy of faithful friends. In answer to an appeal in the cause of education,
Denman writes with that large-hearted liberality which ever
distinguished him:—
My dear Hodgson,—My donation is £10, my subscription £2. I
contribute from a strong desire to see the education of the people practically
carried into effect, from no minute comparison of the different schemes
suggested, but with a full conviction that any education is better than the
ignorance which now prevails—the fruitful source of profligacy, crime,
and suffering.
Yours ever, T. Denman.
Early in the same year Merivale
writes:—
Drury is in remarkably high health and good
humour. Denman waiting to be let loose on the world
of politics with the
ardour and impatience of the war-horse in Job, tempered, however, with so excellent a
judgment and discretion that I would stake fifty lives on the success of his first
display in Parliament.
In a few months from the date of this letter all England rang with
Denman’s name, and universal homage was paid
to that noble spirit of independence which characterised his speeches in the House of Lords
on the occasion of the trial of Queen Caroline.
Of nearly the same date is a letter from John
Bird Sumner, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, an old Etonian and
Cambridge friend of Hodgson, which is highly
characteristic of its writer’s pious, gentle disposition.
Mapledurham, near Reading: July 19, 1820.
My dear Hodgson,—Your letter was a very agreeable surprise to me. Not
that I had lost sight of you, for I heard with great pleasure of your
translation from the uncertainties of a curacy to the pleasant town of
Bakewell, and have often since attempted to strengthen my recollections of its
taper spire and the retired valley in which it stands—am I not right? We
passed through it many years ago, in the course of a tour
to the Caves and the Lakes. Besides which, I heard of you more recently at
Kenilworth, my native place, where a sister of my mother still lives, the only
remaining link of those large and spreading branches of our family which
formerly grew together there. I heard of you, too, in a very agreeable way, as
preaching a sermon warm from the heart, and faithful to the Gospel: and allow
me to hope that the Gospel has brought rest to your own soul, and that you are
now preaching to others the same word of reconciliation. The title of your
volume, as well as the account which I heard of your sermon, leads me to
believe that you, who could never feel anything slightly, have now felt as it
deserves the importance of that office which we are called to discharge, and of
that salvation which we are empowered to make known. ‘Sacred Leisure’1 had struck me in the advertisement before I received your letter,
and I have provided for its meeting me at Eton, where I am going, as in duty
bound, to celebrate election on Saturday next. For you must be told, and will
1Sacred Leisure, a collection of poems on
religious subjects, published by Hodgson in 1820, containing many beautiful thoughts
expressed in language which proved the writer’s faculty for
graceful lyrical composition.
hear with pleasure, that before I
had resided a year in the cloisters I came into possession of a very good and
well-conditioned living by Few’s
death—Mapledurham, four miles from Reading; and here we reside eight
months in the year in an excellent parsonage, and surrounded by a beautiful
country, the Thames flowing at the bottom of my garden. So that my lot is in a
fair ground, and I am amply repaid for the hateful trade1 which I plied for fifteen years. Mrs. Sumner
is in excellent health, and delighted with our present life and place of
residence.
You desire me to mention old friends absent from Eton, but
I scarcely remember any mutual friends remaining to us except Ekins, who is living, as he always did, in
comfort and quiet between Salisbury and Chiddingford, and perhaps I might add
Thackeray (Provost of King’s).
But if there is anyone of whom you want a more particular account, I shall be
glad if it gives you a reason for writing again to me; when you may likewise
tell me something about your own family, to whom I should wish to be known, but
I fear without any immediate prospect of becoming so. However, though you are
fixed far in the wilds remote from
1 That of an assistant-master at Eton.
public view, we are within easy reach of anyone who comes
towards London; and I shall be sincerely glad if you will at any time bend your
route to Mapledurham. In the meanwhile believe me, my dear Hodgson,
Most sincerely yours, J. B. Sumner.
Dean Ireland also writes to acknowledge Hodgson’s latest poetical publication.
Islip, near Oxford: Monday, July 10, 1820.
My dear Sir,—Your letter found me in this retreat,
where I had been passing a few days in order to recruit myself for the expected
labours of London. The labours are now suspended, and I shall cling to the
retreat with more satisfaction, as six or seven continued months of a town life
have given me a more than usual relish for the satisfactions afforded me even
in this ‘Umbræ.’ It is a homely little
village, but there is a pretty garden and an excellent house for the rector.
Besides this, Oxford is within sight, an object which revives all the charms of
the time when Gifford and I were young
men and full of ardent expectations, which a kind Providence has realised to
both of us.
It is probable that some chapter business may call me for a
short time to Westminster, when I shall certainly obtain a sight of the
‘Sacred
Leisure.’ If I am left here undisturbed it shall travel to me from
thence. But in truth the world is all too turbulent for such a subject, at
present at least; hereafter I hope we shall return to the usual enjoyment of
our literature, and there will be time once more for religion and morals to
enter.
I direct this to you somewhat at random. There is, I
believe, more than one Bakewell, but the post distance marked on your letter
seems to point to Derbyshire. I always wish for your happiness, and beg you to
believe me,
Very truly yours, J. Ireland.
Some letters from Harry Drury
afford amusing insight into the conditions of foreign travel in the year 1820.
My dear Hodgson,—Adieu pro tempore. With a Roman friend I am off for Rome
on the 24th of this month (August) for two months. As I travel in an English
landaulet over the Alps; where, when Italiam læti socii clamore salutant, the echo shall reverberate to the Peak in a letter from
your Drury. Seriously, all my arrangements are made, my
money and carriage arrangements particularly; and, as I was always of a roaming
disposition, I intend to stretch so far across the Pomptina Palus as to visit
the præceps Anio at Tivoli. Old John
Heath supplies letters of credit to all the principal cities,
and my companion is Williams’s brother, of the
Ionian corps, who has resided abroad sixteen years, and who was my former
companion to Paris and the Low Countries. I can speak French fluently, and
Italian is all but his native tongue. If you write to me at Genoa, poste restante (you must pay your postage, and the foreign post days in London are
Fridays and Tuesdays), on or about the 3rd August, I shall be sure to receive
your letter on my return, as also another, ten days afterwards, directed to me,
poste restante, at Lyons. This will be kind-hearted
and charitable, my Narva, and on my
honour you shall hear from me while others are taking their siesta. Our
delightful tour is thus arranged. We have a very nice warranted landaulet, with
a seat behind that the view may not be incommoded. We post all the way to Rome
and back; and, as seven weeks are allowed us, shall be impudent enough to take eight (!) We dine with
Merivale at six next Monday, and get
to Dover, travelling all night; from Calais to Dijon, through Cambray and
Rheims, we shall go day and night without stopping, and cutting the often-seen
Paris. From Dijon over the Jura to Geneva. We then take slowly the north of the
Lake, for its views, Lausanne, Vevay, etc., till the roads join and conduct us
through the Vallais over the Simplon. Envy me in the Simplon.
Drury on an alp! Thence to the ‘Te Lari maxime,’ the Lago Maggiore, on which
we are to sail to the Isole Borrome’e, sending our carriage round to
Arona, as one does from Whittlesea Mere to Yaxley Barracks. Milan, two days
allowed. Cross the Po over the bridge of boats at Piacenza; Bologna, and so
forth to Florence; thence the high road by Arezzo, Terni, &c., over the
Apennines to Rome. We shall return by Siena to Leghorn. From thence I must
either accompany my carriage through the Mediterranean in a felucca to Genoa,
or be carried in a sedan chair the same distance. I am
not quite clear that I shall not prefer the latter. From Genoa I shall go
through the unhealthy rice grounds of Alexandria to Turin, thence by Mont Cenis
to Lyons, Paris, &c.
Do you pray for those who travel by land or by water; and if the malaria, and its dreadful consequences
in the Campagna, with which I am threatened, and against which the vox universa guards me, should carry me off, Debita spargas lacryma favillam Pinguis amici.
Adieu, but write for Heaven’s sake to Genoa and
Lyons, and eke to Paris a week after. I sincerely hope your new Poems sell
well, for though I love Bertram Risinghame
better than Cain, and Wilfrid better than Abel, yet that does not make me the less inclined to the
sobriety and elegance of the Muse of my oldest friend.
H. D.
Genoa: August 22, 1820.
I have had a most delightful tour; and by no means the
least pleasing part of my adventures was the receiving an epistle from you this
morning at the Post Office. I am staying here some days after a long sojourn
among the Apennines, over which I have been partly drawn in a wicker basket by
oxen. I have written my tour verbatim to my wife, who will retain the letters;
and, if you will flatter me so much, after my mother has perused it, you shall
have it for a long winter evening. I am vain enough to think it will
please you; at all events it will bring back several classical reflections,
though, alas! I have not been at Rome. Heat, malaria, and revolution all
conspired to render that impossible: but it was not till after the entreaties
of friends and natives, who told me I was throwing myself into the jaws of
destruction, that I reluctantly abandoned my plan of visiting the Immortal
City, when within 150 miles of the Capitol! As I natter myself you will read my
tour, in which you are quizzed as an Improvisatore, I shall herein merely give you the
contents of the chapters. Two hours and a half changed my country from England
to France, and one week brought me to Geneva. The Palace of Compeigne and
Rheims Cathedral, which reminded me of your friend
Whittington, were new to me. Champagne and Burgundy I
completely traversed. The former is a flat, sterile, hideous country; the
latter is a country Molliter acclivi qua viret uva jugo. It is indeed very beautiful, or, rather, appeared so before the grand
features of nature commenced their development. After leaving Dijon and Poligny
in Franche Compté, I entered on the Jura, which,
much as it has been surpassed since, yet was then
magnificent with its pine forests and deep ravines. I went sixty miles over the
Jura, and from its last summit saw what is said to be the finest view in the
world: all Switzerland before me like a map. The Lake of Geneva (on the banks
of which I visited Voltaire at Ferney,
Gibbon at Lausanne, and Byron at Chillon, where he has cut his name on the
pillar), Mont Blanc, and the Alps of Savoy, covered with snow under an
exhausting sun, etc.
Turin: August 25.
A burning sirocco, which had been sweeping the sands of
Turin, confined me to my bed with languor and ennui, and
prevented my finishing my letter to you from Genoa. I wish, indeed, to say as
little now as possible, for you must peruse ‘A Tour on the Continent,’ on my
return. A few days carried me entirely through the Pays de Vaud and the
Vallais, where I coasted the Rhone, now magnificent from the melting of the
snows, nearly to its source. From the Simplon I looked down, like Hannibal, on
the plains of Italy. At Milan and Florence I have been highly entertained. I
have sailed eighty miles on the Mediterranean in a felucca, and to-morrow shall
pass Mont Cenis, in
my way through Savoy to Lyons. I shall be at Paris in less than a fortnight,
where I feel myself as much at home as at Exeter.
But I must go and see the Superga, so adieu. I really would
write the whole sheet full, but I wish you to read me fully.
Your affectionate friend, Henry Drury.
The Po flows under my window, just about as broad as
the Thames at Richmond: would you were at the Po with me, or I at the
Thames with you!
Rue Rivoli, Paris: September 5.
My dear Hodgson,—I only arrived from the Southern clime late last
night, with a severe bilious attack upon me, caused by the Indian heats and
perpetual day and night work in a carriage. I am now staying
out,1 with my window looking over the garden
of the Tuileries. But what is Paris to me after Tot congesta manu præruptis oppida saxis; Fluminaque antiques subter labentia muros. I have read your second letter; the first I answered
1 An Eton boy who is out of school in
consequence of illness, real or imaginary, is said to be ‘staying
out.’
from Piedmont. Before this you will have absolved me from
all neglect, and honoured the motive why I do not detail my travels. O that you
had been my companion! Our souls reciprocally Horatian,
Virgilian, Ovidian,
Claudianian, etc., sparks would have been mutually
elicited. I have seen no news from England yet, but garbled bits of trial in
the Italian paper. . . . . In a few days I shall again be in Old England, from
which I have now been absent nearly seven weeks. I have kept up a
correspondence daily with my family, and I hope it will have been the means of
teaching my elder children geography in an easy manner. I was thunder-struck at
Lyons—and in a short voyage I made down the Rhone to Vienne—with
the stupendous remains of Roman magnificence. The aqueduct at Lyons, did
nothing else remain to tell us of the people who planned and executed it, would
give an idea of Messieurs the Romans which no reading can possibly convey. At
Vienne there is a perfect temple of the age of Augustus. The very roof and entablature are now as
they were 1800 years back. But hush! you must read my tour at Christmas.
Although I shall dine to-day in the Palais Royal, yet not the dainties of
kidneys fried in champagne, or ortolans garnished with
cocks’-combs; not the vintages of Chambertin and Lafitte, will give me
half so much pleasure as a beef-steak and a bottle of port at the Union Hotel,
Dover. When I return to my own dear country you shall hear again from your ever
sincere, etc.
Apropos of the practice of ‘staying out’ at school
alluded to above, a letter written to his father by Merivale’s eldest son, Herman,1 then a boy at Harrow, fourteen years of
age, proves that such periods need not always be unprofitable, and affords a remarkable
instance of an early development of the powers of discriminating criticism. The subject and
the writer of this essay must have been equally interesting to Hodgson, to whom Merivale immediately sent it.
May 7, 1820.
I have not lost anything by staying out, for there were
three holidays last week, and almost every exercise otherwise excused, and I
have made amends by reading hard all the time I have stayed out. I have just
finished the fourth volume of Gibbon,
and
1Herman
Merivale, C.B., afterwards fellow of Balliol, 1827;
Professor of Political Economy at Oxford, 1837; Permanent
Undersecretary for the Colonies, 1848, for India, 1859. Brother to the
present Dean of Ely.
drawn up my remarks on it on paper, which I shall show
you when I see you next. I never was more amused by any book in my life; and I
must think that whatever is said of the duty of impartiality in an historian, a
controversial spirit, such as appears in his chapters, is much more
entertaining; for it exercises the mind in endeavouring to find replies to his
assertions, and keeps one’s attention alive, in a manner which a dry
recital of facts cannot do. I have been able perfectly to satisfy myself in
looking for answers to the charges he brings against Christianity, for, as I
get further in the book, his intention continually appears more plain, although
I could not perceive it at first. His notes are entertaining, and, as Uncle Harry1 possesses the greater part of his books of reference,
I can easily satisfy myself on that head. The thing that struck me as most
unjust is, that he passes over the apostasy of his favourite Julian without offering a single word either in
its support or its condemnation. Yet in other instances he is sufficiently
severe against any disposition to turn with the tide of fortune. If I always
find as much pleasure as now in the relation of historical facts, I do not
1Harry
Drury’ssister married Merivale. Their son was in his uncle’s house at
Harrow.
think I shall ever
be disposed to turn to fiction for amusement.
By far the most interesting fact to me, of the history, is
that of the Arian controversy. For the review of the different sects and
heresies written by a sceptic is necessarily impartial, although he employs the
bitterness of his satire against all together. Before I read this I used to
think that the Arian system had some affinity to the Unitarian of the present
day; and indeed I do not trust thoroughly in Gibbon in his
description of it. He speaks of it as the belief that the Son was a part of the
Triune Deity, but that the Son and the Holy Ghost were reckoned as subservient
to the Father. As I do not thoroughly trust in this explanation of what I never
thoroughly understood, the creed of the Arian sect, I think I shall look into
Mosheim’s ‘Ecclesiastical History’
for it. I should like to be directed to a good and impartial history of the
various heresies that vary from the Catholic belief; it would be one of my most
pleasing studies to me. Gibbon touches
but lightly on the Manichees and philosophical sects. The extravagances of
their belief appear to have chiefly consisted in speculative creeds, and
originated in the uniting the Platonic system with the Christian faith.
Gibbon is exceedingly severe on the
animosity between the supporters of the
όμοούσιον of the Nicene Creed and
orthodox party, and the partisans of the Semi-Arian
όμοούσιον; and this difference of
a letter does certainly appear at first very ridiculous. But surely there can
be nothing more different than the ideas of consubstantiality and similarity,
which are the import of the two words, though I wish they could have invented
names which would seem to imply greater difference at first. The name of
όμοούσιον probably originated in
the compliance of a part of the Arian sect, and their wish to smooth the
difficulties which separated them from the Catholics; although the upshot was
very different. In one place he asserts that the Arians in adversity did not
probably display as much fortitude as the Homoousians, when the latter were in
subjection to their adversaries, because the Arians, who degraded the Son of
God, had not the same zeal and expectation of favour from Him as the Catholics,
who raised Him to equal dignity with the Father. But as this rests on mere
probability, none of the writings of Arians having been suffered to exist, I
should be disposed to reject the inference, particularly on recollecting that
the Dominicans of the fifteenth century, who rejected the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin
Mary, showed at least as much zeal in their own cause as the Franciscans, who
asserted it. In your next letter, if you have leisure, I wish you would write
to me your thoughts on the subject of the divisions of the Church under
Constantine, or direct me to some book which you think might assist me in the
investigation. I have only one more thing to say on this subject; that
Gibbon appears particularly cautious on the subject of
miracles, which many zealous Protestant writers appear to have impugned without
any imputation of scepticism. I mean the miracles performed by the professors
of Christianity. Of course, as to myself, I have very little doubt that the
power of performing miracles was granted to several of its first professors,
after the age of the apostles, in order that the infant Church might be
propagated quicker, and I attribute its increase in great measure to this
power; but I certainly do not suppose that a power so dangerous was any longer
to be granted, when corruptions had begun to creep into the system of the
believers. Gibbon passes them over pretty fairly in
silence, until he comes to an age in which he can with safety attack them;
merely saying that it is dangerous either fully to receive or fully to reject
the accounts. The artful manner in which the history of
some of the chief fathers of Christianity in the age of Constantine and his successors is treated, is
truly wonderful. He begins by praising them as bulwarks of the Catholic faith,
etc., continues to praise them, but, as he descends into minutiae, carefully
bringing forward their most reprovable acts, while all the time he appears
either to defend them, or to impute them to the frailties of human nature. When
he finds nothing particular to find fault with, he generally characterises
them, though in a very covert manner, as artful, ambitious, and turbulent men,
disposed, in their writings, to give up always the truth and impartiality of
history to the interests of the Catholic Church.
I do not know whether you like to have the long letters I
write to you filled with this sort of observations on what I read, but I was
encouraged to write this letter, as when I first learnt Italian you desired me
to do the same, and were pleased with the long letters I used to write on that
subject. However, I shall not stay out any longer, and consequently shall not
read so much as I hitherto have, particularly as the fine weather seems to be
beginning again, and I shall be out a great deal; but I shall not give up
reading altogether, and shall be much obliged to you if you will direct
me, as I said before, to some book concerning those sects. Tell me if I can be
of any service to you in finding out tracts respecting Devonshire antiquities.
I have sent you all I could find in the ‘Archæologia;’ anywhere else I will
look, if you will tell me of any books Uncle Harry has where I could find them.
As I wrote to you last Thursday I have not much else to say; but I think it
will be better for you as well as myself, if instead of sending you the
exuberance of my fancy twice a week in the shape of doubled half-sheet, I
should wait till they collect sufficiently to fill a whole one. The affairs of
the war will go on rather slower, but it will not be the worse for that.
I remain your affectionate son, J. H. M.
During a visit to Chatsworth in the autumn of the following year
Hodgson was introduced to Elizabeth,
Duchess of Devonshire, best known to fame as ‘Lady Elizabeth Foster,’ who wrote to him soon after
her departure on the subject of a conversation on ancient and modern poetry.
Wortley Hall: October 27, 1821.
Sir,—I feel extremely obliged to you for the note
which I received from you on Thursday evening previous to
my leaving Chatsworth. It would be fortunate for Silius
Italicus if he was to be in such hands as yours. My own
inquiries went chiefly to information on the subject, and to know if there was
any Italian translation, that was reckoned good, but the opinion which you
expressed about the merit of his Poem rather weakened my zeal. I beg of you,
Sir, to be assured of the pleasure it gave me to have made your acquaintance at
Chatsworth, and to believe me much yours,
E. Devonshire.
Nearly of the same date is an account by Hodgson of a tour in Yorkshire, in search of a sea-side resort. No easy
matter some fifty years ago.
On Monday the 24th we set forth in our carriage for Sheffield, uncertain
to what part of the Yorkshire coast to direct our way. Dr.
Knight, however, decided us, by recommending the waters as well as the
bathing of Scarborough; and we proceeded by Rotherham, Doncaster, and Ferrybridge to York.
The country about Rotherham is some of the richest both for pastures and cornfields in
England; and it has very beautiful views especially from Winnow-Hill on the Doncaster side.
The stout old Saxon ruin of
Conisborough Castle, celebrated in ‘Ivanhoe,’ rises boldly enough out of its surrounding wood, on the road
side. Doncaster, you know, is one of the neatest towns in England; for clean-swept
pavement, bright brass-knockers, houses looking all newly painted, and windows without a
speck, down a long broad street, it is perfection. We advanced, early morning of Tuesday,
for Ferrybridge, which you well recollect, and walked up the river side opposite
Brotherton. By Tadcaster we proceeded the same day to York, and I certainly was agreeably
surprised to find my first impressions of the Minster increased rather than diminished,
after an interval of so many years. We examined it thoroughly, and heard the anthem. I have
not seen Westminster Abbey since the last improvements in the interior; but, at present,
the grandeur of York predominates in my imagination. On Wednesday evening we got to Malton,
missing Castle Howard, Lord Carlisle’s seat,
which should be taken by the way. But we were eager to get to the sea, and there we arrived
on Thursday, a journey of a hundred and ten miles with one horse, in four days, and that
very leisurely executed, by means of early and late travelling, and resting in the middle
of the day. Scarborough entirely failed, after an accurate search for
lodgings. Those on the Cliff, which are the only possible ones, if you wish a view and a
feel of the sea, require the strength of a Hercules to carry you Antæus-like up the hill from the beach; for as to walking it two or
three times a day, it is impossible for an invalid, with any advantage to health, or indeed
continuance to life. As we wished therefore to live, as much as possible, on the sea-shore,
and inhale sea-breezes all day long, we started again on Friday, and drove down the coast,
twenty miles, to Burlington. Here we took lodgings close to the pier, and had as much
sea-air as we could wish, with a very fine view of the vessels coming close under our
window into harbour. We stayed a fortnight at this place, and should have stayed still
longer, but the incessant noise of the loading and unloading of vessels actually drove us
away, with all the stoppages of all the sailors of Ulysses in our ears. There was literally
not another house in the place, with a view of the sea, the sine quâ non of a saltwater bathing-place, that was not equally noisy; and having before explored
Hornsea, the only tolerable place between Burlington and Hull, but too far from the water,
we directed our mare northward, up the coast, and, passing by Filey Bay, where there is a noble
beach, illuminated with dead fish, we returned to Scarborough, only as a stage on our
journey farther north. Here we examined the ruins of the castle, which we had not done
before. They are more finely situated (on a rock, perpendicular and 300 feet high, jutting
into the sea,) than any I have seen; and, being at one end of the bay, form a striking
object in an evening view from the beach. The name of Oliver’s Mount is improperly
given to a hill on the opposite side of the bay; as if the cannon could have done execution
at such a distance! They did not do so, the wall being entire in that direction. We went
on, over a wild mountain road, but still in view of the sea, to Whitby, twenty miles
farther. The north wolds of Yorkshire are very like parts of the Peak of Derbyshire; but
are bolder, and have the great addition of the ocean. The approach to the ruins of Whitby
Abbey, standing on an eminence above the sea, is very beautiful. The town is closely and
singularly built, but the pier the finest I have seen after Ramsgate.
Here are large vessels engaged in the Greenland fishery, as large as 600
tons burden. The road is still over the wolds to within two or three
miles of Guisborough. We yet had the sea with us, and indeed were skirting the north-east
coast of Yorkshire very regularly. As you descend from the wolds into the valley of
Guisborough (which Camden compared to the country
about Puteoli) the contrast is most beautiful indeed: lovely wooded hills, and considerable
mountains beyond, with a pointed and varied outline. The ruin of the remaining east window
at Guisborough is very large and fine. From this place and its fallen priory we went on to
Redcar; the object of our pursuit, in this little ‘coasting tour, in search of a
sea-bathing place.’ Meanwhile, we were daily gaining health and strength, the
constant succession of new objects greatly refreshing us both. At Redcar our first entrance
was most ill-omened. The best inn was full, and the second-best ———, the
‘Black Swan,’ I do sincerely hope, is ‘rara avis in
terris.’ But, to prolong our horrors much of the same misery which
beset the ‘Swan,’ beset also all the lodging-houses at Redcar, and after the
struggle of a week (not to appear fastidious), we were forced to give up in despair; and,
after some delightful excursions on the unrivalled sands of this place, we turned our
horse’s head York-ward again, by a most enchanting route.
A barrister cousin, Richard
Whitcombe, was an occasional correspondent about this time.
There is nothing new (he writes) in the literary world. Is this so,
or have I lost my relish for modern productions? Somewhat of both, perhaps; though I
certainly do find that ‘ille ego qui quondam’ would have
hunted with pleasure after a new book, and with avidity after a new poem, have a senile
coldness to all the meretricious race and an abhorrence of the latter class. For whilst
I can idle with undiminished delight over the masters of my boyhood—over
Theocritus or Tibullus, Homer or Lucretius, Milton
or Shakespeare—I had infinitely rather
turn to the white volumes of legal crotchets and wire-drawing, than be doomed to the
best fare announced in the cartes of those
exquisite intellectual Deipnosophists, Mr. John
Murray or Mr Joseph Mawman. A propos of this Mr. Joseph Mawman (who,
experto crede, is a Deipnosophist, in
the original sense of the word, of no mean talent), do you know the singularly
appropriate compliment which he paid to Lord Byron?
At a venture, you shall have it. The Bibliopole and the Peer met at a feast. ‘My
Lord,’ said the man of foolscap, who had prepared himself for something worthy of
a meeting between Horace
and the Sosii; ‘My Lord, I have been reading your poem (the “Giaour,” peradventure, or the
“Siege of Corinth”), and
your Lordship must allow me to say that in my opinion you are a
perfect master of the English language.’
CHAPTER XVIII. LETTERS FROM MRS.
LEIGH—BYRON’S DEATH, FUNERAL, AND
MEMOIRS—SKETCH OF NEWSTEAD ABBEY—MEETING WITH
MOORE—HIS LETTERS.
The publication of ‘Don Juan’ caused great distress to Mrs.
Leigh, who thus alludes to it:—
I have nothing good to say of foreign news. I assure you I am very
low about him. This new poem, if persisted in, will be the ruin of him, from what I can
learn. Indeed if his friends (those whom he terms such) allow it, one may believe it.
But if you write say nothing, for it would not do good, I believe, unless you were on the spot, and I was charged not to write of it, as
the more opposition and disapprobation manifested, the more obstinate he will be. God
bless you and yours, etc.
These touching sisterly anxieties culminated a few months later in the
bitter sorrows of bereavement, which found expression in several
letters to that warm-hearted friend from whose sympathy she appeared to derive genuine
comfort.
St. James’s Palace: May 15, 1824.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—The newspapers will have announced to you the
melancholy event which has taken place; but I cannot allow such a friend as you were to hear it only from that public source,
and I know your kind anxiety for me will make a few lines from my own pen
acceptable at such a moment. I need not say that I am overwhelmed with the
severity and suddenness of the blow, but I try to be resigned to God’s
will, and to exert myself for the sake of all those who are kind enough to feel
for me. I am sure of your kind sympathy, and I know your
affectionate attachment for our dear B. will
make you feel this fatal event most severely. I can tell you little more at
present than the papers contain. His complaint originated in a neglected cold,
which became a rheumatic fever; and delirium at last, at intervals, I am
grieved to say, prevented his servant Fletcher from being able to understand something he appeared
very anxious to express. This is dreadful!
I hope the dear Remains will be
brought to Eng-land; it seems
the wish of all. I have seen Mr.
Hobhouse, who is, as you will believe, dreadfully cast down by
this unexpected and severe blow. You shall hear from me again. George Byron was to my comfort in London, and
went down to poor Lady Byron, who is in
great affliction. My children have all been ill, the two elder very seriously
so, but thank God they are recovering.
With my best remembrances to Mrs. H.,
Believe me ever, Yours most truly, Augusta Leigh.
St. James’s Palace: May 31, 1824.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—I hope that you have not thought my silence unkind. I
assure you that your very kind letter was quite a balm
to my heart, but I have been so much harassed by different perplexities that I
have not had time or courage to write again, but I will not delay it another
post. In the first place, your kind inquiries. I am as well as anyone can be in
my circumstances, and I hope I am anxious and willing to admit and receive
every source of consolation in this deeply afflicting event. The first of all
is, that He who has directed it knows what is best for us, and I try to think
that my poor dear B.
is now snatched from us to spare him future trials and temptations. Did I tell
you I had received a long letter full of melancholy details relative to the
last nine days, from his servant, Fletcher, whom you must remember? You shall read it some day,
or I will copy it for you. I cannot bear to part with it at present. It appears
to me that he had never entirely recovered the effects of two fits in February, and Fletcher remarks that they
had made a deep impression, and produced great attention, not only to diet, but
the more serious duties of a Christian. Now, dear Mr. H.,
this is my greatest hope and comfort. I think it impossible that
Fletcher, who had lived with him twenty-three years,
and must have known his habits so intimately, could have been struck with such
an idea without there had been grounds for it. Mr.
Hobhouse, on reading that portion of F.’s letter, desired
me not to show it, as many people might imagine that terror had made him Methodistical. But I tell it to you because I feel confident you will
derive from it the hope and comfort that I do. Would to
Heaven I could have been with him! There was not any Englishman, only a
Count Gamba, an Italian follower of
his, and two Italian physicians, alas! too young and inexperienced, I fear, to
know or do their duty. He had always a great horror of being bled, and it
appears to me that early measures of that sort might
have saved him. God knows! The last twelve hours were perfect tranquillity and
apparent insensibility. Before that, and being quite aware of his situation, he
appeared most anxious to give orders and express something to
Fletcher; but, alas! intervals of delirium prevented
his being understood further than that he desired him to go to his
‘child,’ to his ‘wife,’ and to his ‘poor dear
sister,’ and tell them that. . . . This is indeed
distressing to reflect upon. I hope and believe the dear Remains will be
brought to England. I wish it was all settled and over, for it is a heavy
weight on one’s heart. The will was at Genoa, and a legal copy was
immediately sent for. I imagine that cannot be here till next week. Of course
it must be seen whether there are directions in it respecting the last sad
ceremony. You have probably seen in the newspapers long histories of the Memoirs,
and my name mixed up with them, and I am anxious to tell you the fact. The first day, and the very
day I received the fatal intelligence, that I saw Mr.
Hobhouse, he said, ‘Now the first thing that we have to
think of is to protect Lord B.’s fame; there are
those “Memoirs,”’ and proceeded
to tell me who had them now—Mr. Moore, and of a long
squabble between Moore and Murray about them, which is of no consequence. The next day he
came with a written agreement in his hand, to state to me that Mr.
Moore would pay Murray back the 2,000
guineas he had received from him for them, and give them up to me and me only;
and, Mr. H. observed, ‘I should recommend you,
Mrs. L., to destroy
them,’ which he need not have done, for I was too well convinced that
it was the only thing to do, from the little I had heard of them. The day after
Mr. H. arrived to tell me it was settled that at
twelve next day he, Mr. Moore, and
Murray, Col.
Doyle, or Mr. Wilmot
Horton, on Lady B.’s
part, with perhaps some friend of Moore, would be here to give them up to me, and I was to burn them. You may
guess that I acquiesced from a sense of duty, and as I would go into a court of
justice if required. I thought I should have sunk at the bare idea of it, but it was to be done. About a quarter of an hour after
this was settled and Mr. H. gone, came a note from
Mr. Wilmot Horton with quite a different story,
Moore and Murray having both been
with him. I sent for Mr. Wilmot (who is, you know, our
cousin), and begged for an explanation of what was quite incomprehensible to
me; and after some time I
plainly saw that Moore was ——, and protesting against the destruction of the
‘Memoirs,’ wanting them to be sealed up and deposited with
Mr. Wilmot, etc., etc.; and I told Mr.
Wilmot that if I was to have a voice in the business (which I by
no means wished), that it was my opinion and unalterable determination that
they should be destroyed, and immediately; that I thought delay would only
bring change of feeling and opinion; and that as for publishing the unexceptionable parts, as Mr. Moore
wished and proposed, I thought if the whole was to be canvassed and cavilled
over, to determine what was and what was not unexceptionable, upon which there
might be a difference of opinion, that the whole might as well be published at
once. So the parties, Messrs. Moore,
Murray, Hobhouse, Col.
Doyle for Lady B., and Mr.
Wilmot for me, and Mr.
Luttrell, a friend of Mr. Moore’s,
met at Mr. Murray’s; and after a long dispute and
nearly quarrelling, upon Mr. Wilmot’s stating what
was my wish and opinion, the MS. was burnt, and Moore paid
Murray the 2,000 guineas. Immediately almost after this was done, the legal agreement between
Moore and Murray (which had been
mislaid) was found, and, strange to say, it appeared from it (what both had forgotten) that the property of the MS. was
Murray’s bonâ fide. Consequently he had right to dispose of it as he pleased, and as he had behaved most handsomely upon the occasion, . . . . it was
desired by our family that Moore should receive the 2,000
guineas back. Of course, whoever succeeds to my brother’s property would
consider it incumbent on them to remunerate the loser,
and one would prefer doing so by Murray. I am afraid this has not yet been
accomplished, though Mr. Wilmot declares it shall be. Only imagine that with the bond there was a
written declaration of Moore, stating it his own and
Lord B.’s opinions that the MS. never ought to
be published, and in 1822 Mr. Hobhouse heard from poor B.
himself that he never wished it should. This is, dear
Mr. Hodgson, the whole case exactly, and I hope you
will not disapprove of the part I had in it, which was not of my own seeking,
but as I was drawn into it I felt it my duty to act as I think he, poor dear soul! would now (divested of earthly
feelings) approve. I must now say a word of the kind wish expressed to me in
your letter. Believe me, that it would gratify me more than I can say, and that
I am very sure nobody would execute1 it with more
1Hodgson had proposed to write his friend’s life.
feeling and ability than
you. But I’m sure you will understand that I am very delicately situated,
first in taking upon myself what may appear to others to belong to them to
pronounce upon; and then I cannot help anticipating that there are still others
who will wish me to give my sanction to them, and whose
feelings I would not wound by giving a preference,
whatever I may feel on the subject. After all, do not
let what I say deter you, and rely on any and every assistance I can give. I
see no harm in more than one attempt to do the thing. Do not mistake me, dear
Mr. H.; believe me, it is impossible to do more
justice than I do to your attachment, as well as every other requisite. I am only afraid of interfering where it might be thought
I had no right. I am most grateful for your kind sympathy in my grief, which not everyone can fully enter into, and, with best
remembrances to Mrs. H.,
Believe me, Ever most truly yours, A. L.
Pray write when you can.
St. James’s Palace: June 25, 1824.
I feel quite provoked with myself, dear Mr. Hodgson, for my unpardonable silence
towards you; but you are always so indulgent towards me
that I think you will only attribute it to the real cause. I cannot describe
the numerous worries I have had, and I have constantly delayed writing,
thinking I might have certainties to communicate instead of uncertainties, upon
subjects which I am sure, as connected with the particular one, cannot but be
interesting to you. It is high time to answer your letter, however,
particularly upon two points. That of your wishes, which I can truly say are
mine—on the first, regarding his dear memory, you have only to suggest to
me what you think would be best—we can consult together: and for the
second, which concerns me and mine so immediately, believe me, dear
Mr. H., most grateful, and the more gratified from the
source of such a wish on your part.1 The time will
come, I hope, when it may be fulfilled. You have probably heard a rumour that
my poor dear B. has provided for me and my
family. In the first instance it was supposed (though I cannot exactly discover
upon what grounds) that there was a will at Genoa, and immediate steps were
taken by Mr. Kinnaird to have a legal
copy sent home. But after the most careful and repeated
1Hodgson was anxious to take one of Mrs. Leigh’s sons as a
pupil—a desire which was subsequently fulfilled.
search, none can be found.
It remains, therefore, to be seen whether any will be forthcoming among the
papers coming from Greece, and which with the dear Remains may be expected the
beginning of July. Everybody, except myself, is persuaded there is no will but
that here, which is in my favour and that of my children, and of which I was
told, at the time it was made, by Lady
Byron; and it is satisfactory to me to have her letter by me, in
which she kindly expressed her gladness at it, and that she thought it a very
just measure. It is a very painful subject for me to touch upon, but total
silence to such a friend as you would be impossible. You shall hear from me
when the last mournful arrival takes place—and how I dread it! Mr. Hobhouse told me yesterday he had received
further accounts of the last days from a Mr.
Trelawney, of whom I had never heard, but it appears that he had
been in habits of intimacy for some years. He arrived at Missolonghi a day too
late to see our dearest B. alive. I have not yet seen the letter, but am
promised it, and will let you see all that will be interesting. It is a comfort
to know that he expressed a wish to be brought to England, as we had decided
upon it. He appears to have been lost for want of proper advice; but, on the other hand, it was ascertained that had life been
spared now, it could not have been of long continuance, for the liver was so
small it was only wonderful he had existed so long. If one could but hope the
mind was prepared for the awful change! I trust in the mercy of Heaven that
such was the case. Poor dear B.! It appears to me a dream that he is indeed
lost to me for ever in this world.
Saturday.
I have seen Mr.
Hobhouse this morning, and he read to me parts of Mr. Trelawney’s letter. It appears, as
from Fletcher, that poor dear B. was aware of his situation on the 17th or 18th
(he expired on the 19th), and was most anxious to give
Fletcher directions which, though his lips moved, his
tongue could not articulate. I hope his sufferings were not very acute.
Mr. Trelawney observes that before he had left Italy
he had become restless and unhappy, dissatisfied with everything, and ailing
and sickly to a great degree. It has long been impossible to know what to wish
for him in this world, and for my own part I have lived in a state of incessant
anxiety about him. If I could but think he was now
happy! But I hope and trust in the wisdom and mercy of the Almighty. When you have a moment write
to me, dear Mr. H., and believe me ever affectionately and gratefully yours,
A. L.
I believe the Remains will be deposited in Westminster
Abbey; at least it seems the wish of his friends. Lady B. will not express any, and under these circumstances
I don’t wish to mention mine, which was for our own family vault. I
believe there has been nothing found by way of poetry of his composition
except some lines1 written upon his last birthday, which are said to
be very beautiful.
St. James’s Palace: July 5, 1824.
Dear Mr. H.,—A few lines, as I
know you are anxious. The papers have probably announced to you the arrival of
that melancholy ship with the dear Remains. Of this I heard on Thursday and
was, I believe, the only person who expected it so soon, but for days before I
could not divest myself of the sensation, or presentiment, that it was near me.
You will think me very foolish, but so it was. It is to be this day in the
Docks, and the Remains moved to a house taken for the purpose in George Street,
Westminster. The intention is to deposit
1 ‘’Tis time this heart should be
unmoved,’ &c.
them either in Westminster Abbey, or our own family vault near our own dear Abbey. I’ve not yet seen
Mr. Hobhouse to-day, so I do not
know the Dean’s pleasure, which
has been sounded, not asked. I am expecting Fletcher every moment! You may
guess with what feelings. If I cannot write after having
seen him, you shall hear again to-morrow. If this melancholy ceremony takes
place in Westminster Abbey, it will be this week, I suppose, and is to be as
private and quiet as possible. I almost now wish it may be there, although it
was my own original wish that it should be in the other place. But I think it
would disappoint and inconvenience some friends who wish to attend. The papers
will also give you the account of the will: no other being found, and every
reason to suppose no later one has been made, it was to be proved to-day. I
cannot express how deeply grateful I am for the very unexpected provision for
me and mine. More to-morrow.
Yours ever, A. L.
St James’s Palace: July 8, 1824.
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—I am sure that it will be most gratifying to
everybody concerned that you should attend,1
and more particularly so to me; and I hope that Hucknall Torkard being the
place will render it not very inconvenient to you. I can only tell you that it
is two or three miles from Newstead and fourteen from Nottingham. The funeral
sets out on Monday, and Thursday or Friday will be the day. If I can ascertain
beforehand which of the two, I will write to you. Mr. Hobhouse, Mr.
Kinnaird, Col. Leigh,
and, I conclude, Mr. Hanson, will
attend. I shall probably see Mr. Hobhouse to-day and will
mention your wish.
I have not yet been able to see Fletcher, as he has been detained on board the
ship to attend to the effects till the Custom House should release them; but I
believe I did not tell you that I could not resist seeing the Remains. He was
embalmed, so it was still possible; and the melancholy comfort that it bestowed
on me never can be expressed. There are few who can
understand it, I believe; for my own part, I only envy those who could remain
with and watch over him till the last. Such are my feelings, but I know there
are many who could not bear it. It was awful to behold what I parted with
convulsed, absolutely convulsed with grief, now cold and inanimate, and so
altered that
1 The funeral.
I could scarcely persuade myself it was him—not a
vestige of what he was. But God’s will be done! I hope I shall resign to
it. I hear that Fletcher says that for the last year his
mind and feelings appeared to be changed much for the better. He expressed
concern at having written ‘Don
Juan’ and other objectionable things. He talked latterly with
great affection of his child, and in kind terms of Lady
B. This is all comfort, dear Mr. H.; and I
tell it you, for I know how truly you loved him and his best interests. I long
to see Fletcher to judge for myself. He has been
cautioned, from the first, to restrain his communications; there will, of
course, be so much curiosity.
I have seen Lady B.,
which was a great trial. She was much agitated. I believe I told you how
handsomely she has behaved to my cousin the
present Lord B. I am glad indeed to hear you approved of
what I had done about the Memoirs. . . . God bless you, dear Mr. H.
The funeral, which took place on July 16,1 1824,
was attended by Hodgson, who wrote an account of it
to Mrs. Leigh.
1Moore remarks,
that on the very same day of the same month in the preceding year, Byron had said despondingly to Count Gamba, ‘Where shall we be in another year?’
St. James’s Palace: Thursday, July 29, 1824
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—There certainly is a spell upon my correspondence
with you. I have been so harassed and worried with business matters that I have
not had a peaceful moment to say a few words to you. I felt your kindness so
deeply in writing me those sad, mournful, yet grateful, details! I can imagine
all you felt that day, and only wish I could have been there too. . . .
My head and heart are in such a distracted state with the
various inevitable consequences of this sad event, that I think I must go away
somewhere soon, for I want repose. I regret, too, very much that you did not
question Fletcher; but I flatter myself
you may have future opportunities, and I should encourage him to communicate
with you freely on that most interesting subject. You
see, dear Mr. Hodgson, that Mr. Hobhouse and a certain set imagine that it
might be said by his enemies, and those who have no religion at all, that he
had turned Methodist, if it was affirmed that he paid
(latterly) more attention to his religious duties than formerly. But let them
say what they will, it must be the first of consolations to us that he did so.
I am convinced of it from Fletcher’s assertions, and a letter from a Dr. Kennedy, in Cephalonia, to Fletcher since
the death. I shall ever bless that man for his endeavours to work upon his
mind. In some moments one regrets there was not more
time for them, in others one recollects what threatened if a longer
time had been granted, and one ends by a conviction that all must have been for
the best.
Tell me how I can send you a mourning ring,1 which I have thought a little of the hair would make
more acceptable. Best compliments to Mrs.
H.
Ever yours most truly, A. L.
A Bible presented to him by that better angel of his life, his beloved
sister, was among the books which Byron always kept near him. His lines on the ‘Bible’ are not published with
his works, nor so well known as they deserve to be:—
Within this awful volume lies The mystery of mysteries. Oh! happiest they of human race, To whom our God has given grace
1 This mourning ring, with the name and date of death and a
lock of hair, is now in my possession.—J. T.
H.
To hear, to read, to fear, to pray, To lift the latch, and force the way; But better had they ne’er been born Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.
To these the following fragment may be added:—
Oh that to me the wings were given Which bear the turtle to her nest; Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, And flee away and be at rest!
That Christian doctrine had taken a stronger hold upon Byron’s convictions than his horror of cant ever allowed
him to admit, is proved by many instances in which the conduct of his life was at variance
with his professed infidelity. His heroic self-sacrifice in the cause of freedom in Greece,
and his intense sympathy with the distressed operatives of his own country—as shown
by his magnificent speech in the House of Lords on the Frame-breaking Bill—seem to
point to the unacknowledged influence of Christianity upon his character; and no life ever
afforded more ample evidence of the possession of that most excellent gift of charity to
which the Divine promise is given that it shall cover a multitude of sins.
Fifty-two years after the funeral, the writer of this Memoir paid a visit to Hucknall Torkard Church, and saw the plain
white tablet erected by Mrs. Leigh to her
brother’s memory on the south wall of the chancel. Attached to the tablet there is a
small laurel wreath, much withered, which was sent by some American ladies from San
Francisco. Below the wreath there is a rather tawdry silk banner, on which a peer’s
coronet is woven and the motto, ‘Crede Byron.’ The interment took place
at the south-west corner of the altar, within the rails, where there is a family vault, in
which the remains of his mother and daughter also repose side by side with his own. The
monument to Lady Lovelace, who died at the same age
as her father (36), is in precisely the same simple style.
In the parish register in the vestry, Byron’s burial is entered between those of two villagers, who were
also of about the same age as himself. The church is singularly devoid of ornament, and the
churchyard has a somewhat desolate appearance. Close to its entrance there is a miserable
dilapidated sort of inn called ‘Byron’s Rest.’ As I passed through the
village I heard a military band playing a very spirited tune, which somehow suggested the
last days of noble self-devotion in Greece, when the poet’s life was sacrificed in
the endeavour to rally a degenerate people in the
sacred cause of liberty.
Taking the train from Hucknall—a wretched, dreary, weird-looking
village—I reached Newstead Station in about ten minutes. Close to the Station are
Newstead Collieries, from which there is an approach to the Abbey, about a mile and a half
in length, which was formerly an avenue. The fields on either side were apparently once
part of the old park, and the road leads to a lodge and gate, where, by an abrupt descent,
it discloses a small lake on the right, with laurel plantations in the foreground. Passing
through this little valley, the road continues by a rather steep ascent with banks of
evergreens on either side, until, on approaching level ground, the Abbey becomes visible on
the right, the near part modern and repaired, the farther end consisting of most beautiful
and picturesque ruins. Behind these is Boatswain’s grave,
in the vault adjoining which Byron himself once wished
to be buried. On reaching the plateau at the top of the hill, I was surprised, almost
startled, by seeing immediately on the left, where I had expected park scenery, a sheet of
water, apparently at least a mile in extent, with a sailing boat anchored near to the
shore.
By the kindness of the present owners of New-stead, I was allowed to see every part of the house and grounds. The present
entrance-hall is of modern date, and immediately below the former one, which was approached
by a flight of steps into a small antechamber, where there is now a staircase, at the end
of a beautiful banqueting-hall, which was used by the poet as a shooting-gallery. Charles Skinner Matthews gives an amusing description of
this entrance, guarded by a wolf and a bear on either side, and within pistol-shot of the
‘merry monks of Newstead.’ Passing through a series of galleries which exhibit
few traces of their former monastic inhabitants, I was shown through a number of bed-rooms,
richly ornamented with carving, tapestry, and velvet hangings, and occupied at different
times by various royal and noble personages, to the drawing-room, upwards of 150 feet long,
which in the poet’s time was used for lumber, and from the windows of which is seen
the famous oak tree which he planted. The passages are full of relics, perhaps the most
interesting of which is the table on which ‘English Bards’ was written in the autumn of 1809. The study, which is
also a gallery in shape, is full of high-backed chairs richly carved and considerably older
than the present century. In the old dining-room, with its handsome chimney-piece and
panelled ceiling, the furniture is kept exactly
as it used to be when Byron and his friends passed such
pleasant evenings together. From the adjoining gallery there is a narrow winding staircase
to the bed-room and dressing-room occupied by Byron, in which there
are pictures of his old servant Murray, of some
colleges at Oxford, where he would have matriculated had there been a vacancy at Christ
Church, and of Trinity and King’s Colleges, Cambridge. This bed-room overlooks the
lake so dear to its former owner. In the garden beside Boatswain’s grave there is the mirror pond, paved evidently for bathing
purposes, and strange yew-planted walks, full of grotesque statues, which were erected by
the poet’s eccentric predecessor. On a tree in these wild pathways, kept now as
formerly, Byron inscribed his own and his sister’s name, on the
occasion of his last visit to his beautiful home.
The lovely woods and waters which surround this picturesque and
venerable Abbey seem to blend their voices in pathetic harmony, and to breathe a peaceful
requiem which fancy wafts onward to the church, where in quiet and obscurity lie the mortal
remains of him whose youth and beauty and genius and goodness, whose crimes and follies and
misfortunes, alike await the final judgment of that omnipotent Creator whose essential
attribute is love.
Having abandoned his original idea of himself writing a memoir of
Lord Byron’s life, Hodgson readily acceded to Moore’s request for assistance in a similar work. The correspondence
on this subject, although it did not take place until some years later, will appropriately
conclude the present chapter.
On Oct. 16, 1827, Moore writes
in his journal, ‘Talked much of Hodgson, of
whom Mrs. R. A. thinks most highly; says he is
“a blessing” in the neighbourhood.’
Sloperton Cottage: November 8, 1827.
My dear Sir,—Our friend Mrs. Arkwright had already told me how kindly you were disposed
towards me, but I am rejoiced to have it also under your own hand. You may be
assured I shall have great pleasure in coming to you, when I next visit
Derbyshire.
I cannot help thinking that you take rather too fastidious
a view of Byron’s letters. Offensive
personalities are, of course, inadmissible; but the names of friends, kindly
mentioned, and allusions to some of the events in which he and those friends
were engaged, could not fail to interest, and to interest harmlessly. If you view his correspondence with you in this light, I am sure you will find
much of it that a biographer could turn to account. At all events, it is of
importance to me to see as much of his as I can, as the more I know of all the
bearings of his life, thoughts, and feelings the deeper, of course, I shall be
imbued with my subject, and the more chance there is of my being able to do
justice to it. In this way you can be of material service to me, particularly
with respect to the earlier part of his life, and the time of his first travels, which is the period I am most imperfectly
supplied with information on. You need not put yourself to the least
inconvenience in your kind task for me, as after Christmas will be abundantly
soon for my purpose. It will double the pleasure of my visit to you if I am
lucky enough to be able to accept Mrs.
Arkwright’s invitation to Mrs.
Moore, and thus avail myself of the opportunity of introducing
her to Mrs. Hodgson, to whom I beg my
best remembrances. As our common friend was not formal, I don’t see why
we should be so, and shall therefore say, my dear Hodgson,
I am yours very truly, Thomas Moore.
In the following January (1828) Moore met Hodgson at Stoke, and alludes to his visit in his
journal for that month:—
24th.—Set off at half-past six in the coach for Stoke. . . .
Found Mrs. Arkwright, Mrs. J. Cooper, and Hodgson waiting for me at the mill, and walked up with them to the
house.
25th.—Mrs. Arkwright,
who has been full of anxiety as to my finding Hodgson in a mood to give me the assistance I want from him, put us,
after breakfast, in a little room together; where he with the utmost readiness and
kindness placed a number of Byron’s letters in
my hand, as well as extracts from others of a more confidential nature; and left me
alone to look over them and select such as might suit my purpose. . . .
26th.—After breakfast closeted with Hodgson for two or three hours on the subject of
Byron; found none of the reserve in him that
Mrs. A. apprehended, but the fullest
cordiality and confidence. Walked with him afterwards to Middleton Dale: fine rock
scenery; the Delf very grand. Hodgson very agreeable at dinner:
Mrs. A. said she had never seen him so happy. He had
determined upon going home before dinner (thinking it right that a clergyman should
pass his Saturday evening at home), but was prevailed to stay till night. Some amusing stories of Scrope Davies. . . . After singing and singing over
and over again, we saw Hodgson and his wife off in their carriage
to Bakewell. My song, ‘And doth not a meeting like
this?’ brought tears from both singer and hearers.
27th.—After breakfast set off to church (Bakewell) with
Mrs. Arkwright. . . . Hodgson’s sermon very good. We again conquered
his resolution, which was decidedly not to dine from home; but
he yielded. Mrs. A., indeed, said that he seemed quite another
person since I came. The dinner again very agreeable.
28th.—Hodgson went
down with me to the place where I was to meet the coach (his wife having put into my
hands before I came away a paper, which she said I might read at my leisure); and after
a most cordial parting, I started about 12 o’clock on my way to Newstead. Found
that the paper Mrs. Hodgson gave me contained
some kind and flattering verses Hodgson had written on my visit
and departure.
19 Bury Street, St. James’s: February 21, 1828.
My dear Hodgson,—I despatch you this note lest you should be
wondering at my silence, though the mere fact of my
prolonged stay in town (which you may have learned from Arkwright) will already perhaps have
sufficiently accounted for it. You have already, I doubt not, heard from our
friends at Stoke of the renewal of my agreement with Murray, and the very prosperous terms on which
I am now to bring out the work. There are two or three points of detail to be
settled between us yet, but I have no doubt of the coalition (unlike those of
political personages) turning out satisfactorily to all parties.
I wrote to Hobhouse
soon after I left you, acquainting him with the success of my researches, both
at Southwell and with you, and had an answer from him full of kindness, and
mentioning you in terms of cordial import. I have seen him only once since I
came to town; but Murray tells me he is
highly pleased with the new arrangement we have made. In order that you might
have your letters back as soon as possible, I was about to entrust them to a
friend of mine here to copy them for me, but I will keep them now till I get
home and transmit them to you from thence, having transcribed them myself.
I mean to write to Mrs.
Arkwright as soon as I arrive at Sloperton, but in the meantime
pray tell her that her book has
remained sacredly closed ever since I left Stoke, much to the astonishment, I
dare say, of its contents, which are but little accustomed to have such
‘a chain of silence’ over them.
Yours, my dear Hodgson,
very truly, Thomas Moore.
March 19, 1828.
My dear Hodgson,—I have been rather afraid, since I received your
last, to trust Croker’s channel
again, as, from some other irregularities in packets which he used to transmit
very punctually to me, I rather fear the Sublime Porte is beginning to occupy
him too much for us minor sublimities to have any chance of attention. I shall
therefore send you your letters at intervals, under my friend Bennett’s covers. You cannot think how
it worried me to find you had been put to such expence by your kindness to me.
I have sent Mrs. Blencoe the promised
cheques, and pray, tell Mrs. Arkwright
that I have hit two birds at once by it, as, besides shining out in the
miscellany myself, I have immortalised her, having put
into verse that dream she knows of, in which a certain face came to me one fine
morning and sung ‘False hearted young man’
(not meaning me, though) from beginning to end.
Ever yours, T. Moore.
I have heard from Mrs.
A., who says she is ‘raised, refined’ by
Pasta, neither of which
processes was she in want of. Nothing can be happier than the tone in which
she writes.
Sloperton Cottage: April 25, 1828.
My dear Hodgson,—I ought to have answered your letter long before
this, but the truth is, I have such shoals of epistolary stuff to get through
every morning (my chief literary labours, I think, being for the postman), that
I am tempted sometimes to presume upon the good nature of kind friends such as
you are, and ‘keep never minding you’ (as we say in Ireland) longer
than I should do. . . . My plan hitherto has been to extract from his journals,
or memorandum-books, such passages as related to the part of his life I was
detailing, and then omit them afterwards when I come to give the journal
itself. . . .
While in London, I had really not a moment for anything
beyond the immediate vortex I was
whirling in. One day I was lucky enough to be able to dedicate to our friends
at Harrow, and you and Mrs. Hodgson were
not forgotten among our
άξιομνημόνευτα.
. . . While in town I saw your old acquaintance Harness, who has given me some very interesting letters of
B.’s.
Most truly yours, Thomas Moore.
Sloperton Cottage: August 1, 1828.
My dear Hodgson,—Having the enclosed letters of Byron’s to send you I waited for a frank,
and have unluckily got one at a moment when there is hardly time to accompany
it with more than a word or two. The receipt of your last letter gave me the
sincerest pleasure. . . .
I have all along advised Power not to hesitate on price with Mrs. Arkwright, and, from what I last heard from him, it
appears he has left it to her to name her own terms, which will, I trust, get
over all difficulty.
I proceed very slowly with Byron, from various distractions; but as soon as I come to his
correspondence with me and Murray, the
scissors and paste will come into play, and I shall cover
space most rapidly.
Ever yours, my dear
Hodgson, most truly, Thomas Moore.
Sloperton: November 13, 1828.
My dear Hodgson,—Your letter has been too long unanswered, but the
only point in it which demanded an immediate reply I knew you could be easily
satisfied upon by others, namely, as to the place of payment for the
subscription to Byron’s monument. In
consequence of my not residing in town, I am not one of the sub-committee; but
as well as I can recollect, Ransom’s is the bank
where the subscriptions are to be paid. This intelligence, however, will, I
fear, come rather late.
I don’t know whether I told you that I passed some
days at Methuen’s with John Cam1 this year,
and that his conversation about you was everything you could most wish it to
be. As to the refusal of Westminster Abbey,2 I know not
what to think. One would be inclined to say to the intolerant refuser—
1Hobhouse.
2 The refusal to receive the statue of
Lord Byron, by Thorwaldsen, now in the library of
Trinity College, Cambridge, in Westminster Abbey.
I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel may this poet be When thou liest howling. But the statement has been, I am told, confidently contradicted.
I have been very much retarded and distracted in my
operations this summer by excessive anxiety about our little girl, and by the necessity of going
backwards and forwards between this and Southampton, where I had her and the
rest of my family for several weeks, to try the benefit of the hot salt-water
bathing. She is now, I am happy to say, improving, though still but slowly.
Notwithstanding all these interruptions, I have managed to get on a little with
my work, and still hope to go to press about the beginning of the year. I wish
you would tell me whether the details in the letters from Spain, which you
withheld from me, related to those ladies in whose house he stayed at Seville,
or to the admiral’s daughter, with whom he had some flirtation at Cadiz.
The Editor of the
‘Keepsake’ (my
negotiations with whom I made you acquainted with at Stoke) has played me a
most notable trick. Having this year offered me six hundred pounds for 120
pages, chiefly (as he confessed) to have the advantage of
my name in his list of contributors, he, on my refusing this offer, thought he
might as well have the name at all events; and, as he could not buy it, take
possession of it gratis. Accordingly, on the strength of
some ten-years-old doggrel of mine he picked up, my name has been (as I daresay
you have seen) posted as one of his contributors, and the doggrel
—— (as he ought to be) into the bargain. Isn’t this too
provoking?
Remember me most cordially to your fair neighbour1 and Mrs.
Hodgson, believing me ever, my dear Hodgson,
Most truly yours, Thomas Moore.
1Mrs. Robert
Arkwright.
CHAPTER XIX. LITERARY OCCUPATIONS—LETTERS FROM ROGERS,
MONTGOMERY, ALARIC WATTS,
BUTLER, SCROPE DAVIES,
DRURY, LONSDALE, DENMAN. 1827-1830.
In 1827 a poetical pot-pourri, entitled the ‘Casket,’ was originated by Hodgson, and received contributions from several eminent
men of letters, among whom were Rogers, Moore, Campbell,
Wordsworth, James and Horace Smith, the authors
of ‘Rejected Addresses,’
Merivale, Praed, and Montgomery.
Rogers and Montgomery wrote the following
replies to Hodgson’s first appeal for assistance:—
My dear Sir,—Inclosed are the verses, such as they
are. They belong to the second part of a poem called ‘Italy,’ and it is but fair to tell you
that I think of publishing them in the Spring, as soon as
the beginning of May, if not sooner. The first part I published some years ago.
With great esteem, I remain yours most truly, Saml. Rogers. St. James’s Place, London: Dec. 17, 1827.
Reverend and dear Sir,—You will forgive my apparent
neglect of your letter dated nearly a month ago, when I tell you that I have
only just arrived at home, after an absence of more than five weeks, during
which I travelled about from place to place, so frequently, that letters could
not be forwarded to me, and I find an appalling heap on my table, several of
them containing requests similar to that in yours. Whatever answer I may return
to the rest—for I say ‘no’ as often as I can—I will
endeavour to say ‘yes’ to your application, if you will allow me
time. You do not say when you wish for the contribution; if you will inform me
of the last moment when it will be acceptable, I will promise to do my best to
come up with it, and bring my gift, whatever that may be, in my hand; for I,
alas! do everything at the last moment, or rather delay everything till then,
and do nothing right or in time. I am, however, so implicated in
tasks and duties, through which I cannot break, that unless you will allow me
breathing-space, I dare not undertake even so small a commission as yours is. I
write in great haste, and shall consider silence consent to my proposal; though
asking time is an ominous phrase, in these commercial days, when a payment is
to be made of a debt acknowledged, and I hereby acknowledge mine as aforesaid.
Meanwhile, I am truly your friend and servant, J. Montgomery. Sheffield: Dec. 1827.
About the same time Hodgson’s
aid was solicited in furtherance of an object similar to his own by Alaric Watts, whose publication, the ‘Literary Souvenir,’ is described in
the ensuing letters, and was continued as an annual until the year 1836. Its editor was
subsequently connected with several newspapers, and also edited the ‘United Service Gazette,’ from 1833-43. His poems,
entitled ‘Lyrics of the
Heart,’ obtained for him a Government pension of £100 per annum.
8, North Bank, Regent’s Park.
Sir,—The very great pleasure I have derived from your
poetical writings, and the desire I have to be allowed to
include some little poem from your pen in the next volume of the work of which
I have herewith the honour to beg your acceptance, have led me to presume so
far upon your kindness as to prefer my request to you without waiting for the
favour of a personal introduction. The object of the ‘Literary Souvenir’ is to present, in
one volume, specimens of the style of a large proportion of the most
distinguished writers of the day; as well as to afford some idea of the state
of the Fine Arts, by engravings, by the most eminent engravers, of the
well-known productions of British Artists.1 Among those
writers who have either afforded or promised contributions for its pages are
Sir Walter Scott, Mr. T. Campbell, Mr. Montgomery, Mr.
Milman, Mrs. Hemans,
Mr. Southey, Mr. Wilson, Mr.
Lockhart, L. E. L.,
Hogg, Miss Mitford, Miss
Porter, Mrs. Opie,
Mr. Bowles, Delta, Mr.
Dale, and various other well-known authors. In the volume of the
work now preparing, I am desirous, if possible, to secure some little poem from
every distinguished living poet; and as my plan will be quite incomplete unless
I
1 Among those who contributed to the
illustrations of the Literary
Souvenir were Turner,
Leslie, and Roberts; the engravings being executed
by Heaton and other of the best engravers of the
day.
shall succeed in obtaining something from your pen, I am inclined to hope you
will not refuse my request. Should you not be disposed to concede me the favour
I ask, I hope you will at least pardon me for the liberty I have taken.
I am, dear sir, with great esteem, Your obedient servant, Alaric A. Watts.
Between 10,000 and 11,000 the last ‘Literary Souvenir’ were printed, and as the ensuing
volume will be every way more interesting, I have reason to expect that it will be even
more popular.
Hodgson’s ready response to this appeal was
thus acknowledged:—
You will perceive that I have printed one of your poems, which has
been much admired and often quoted. I need not say how much I shall feel obliged by
some similar communication for my next volume. You will be glad to hear that the
success of the ‘L. S.’ has
exceeded even that of the former volume, 9,000 having been circulated already. With
renewed acknowledgments, etc.
Various letters from friends, written about this
date, are not without interest. The first was written, during a tour in Yorkshire, by
Dr. Samuel Butler, Head-master of Shrewsbury,
and afterwards successively Archdeacon and Bishop of Lichfield.
Kirkby Lonsdale: July 1, 1826.
My dear friend,—I went from your house to Norton,
where I stayed a day, then to Mr. Walker’s of
Eastwood, near Rotherham, and thence to Col.
Fullarton’s of Thryburgh. At half-past ten at night, I
visited the keep of Conisborough Castle, without having an interview with
Cedric’s or
Athelstane’s ghosts; but their accompanying
spirits, the owls, sang a fine chorus. I spent a day at Barmborough, and
proceeded from Doncaster (without having seen the race-course) to Skipton in
Craven, where I saw Skipton Castle, and thence proceeded to the magnificent
scenery of Bolton Abbey, and three miles up the Wharf, through romantic woods,
to the celebrated Strid, where the river contracts itself to a width of only
four feet, but of enormous depth, and about which and some white doe of Rylstone, I am told,
Wordsworth has prosed with his usual1 . . . Hence I returned to Skipton, and
1 The expressions here used are not
sufficiently complimentary to justify repetition.
proceeded to Helafield Peel (which, being translated into English, means the
fortress in the field of Hela), where the father of one of
my pupils, and his ancestors have resided, I believe, almost ever since the
worship of Hela was known in Scandinavia. Yesterday I rode
a black horse (one of Hela’s progeny) about
twenty-four miles, to see some of the wonders of Craven, such as Gordale,
Malham Cave, and Malham Tara—all curious in their way, but nothing so
curious as my riding such a distance (more than I have ridden in the last six
years collectively) and not being much fatigued. This morning I set off with
the intention of reaching Ambleside, but have only proceeded two stages to this
place, where I am spell-bound, neither horse nor chaise being to be had, on
account of that detestable Lawyer Brougham
(quem Dii deæque perdant), with his perfectly useless opposition to the
Lowthers of Appleby. I am truly out of humour. I hate
Wordsworth, for daring to write about such a place as
Bolton Abbey. . . . I hate Brougham, for interrupting the
posting of His Majesty’s subjects on their lawful business, etc. . . .
Yours truly, S. B.
Of nearly the same date is another letter from the same hand, written
during a tour among the English Lakes:—
My dear friend,—I am all the better for my residence
here, where I shall stay a week longer. You may think how much better I am than
when we parted, when I tell you that I climbed a mountain 1,500 feet high
yesterday, and, with the assistance of my friend Mr.
Mathew, built an ancient fort on the top of it, and came down to
dinner without feeling fatigued. I attribute this renovation to great amusement
in the fishing department, and the peculiarly nourishing and well-flavoured
properties of the Westmoreland mutton. Your historical annotations amused me
much, but do not alter my opinion. As to the independence of Westmoreland, it
is all a farce. The 1,300 voters for Brougham are as much the slaves of Lord Thanet and his friends, as the 1,760 for the Lowthers are
the slaves of Lord Lonsdale. There are a
few independent voters on both sides, and the rest sell their sweet voices or
give them as they are bid; and what does it matter to you, or me, or them,
whether the man’s name whom they vote for begins with a B or an L?
I think Archdeacon
Wrangham is very appro-priately fixed at Humanby, and therefore I cannot consent to let him exchange
livings with you. We carry on the war here against the tyrants of the lake very
successfully, and meditate a battle royal tomorrow and the next day on a
celebrated lake—Wyborne Water—at the foot of Helvellyn, in the Vale
of St. John, where are the fairy rocks and castle sung of in the ‘Bridal of Triermain.’ The
scenery here is indeed magnificent, particularly about Wyborne Water, and the
rock called the Raven’s Crag, almost twice the height of Matlock High
Tor, perpendicularly over the head of the lake. Coniston, too, with its
gigantic old ruin, and its bare and rugged rocks, full of copper-mines, is very
grand; while Windermere, with its wide valley and undulating hills and
promontories, is full of milder beauties. But the most sublime of all is
Ulleswater, in its two last reaches of Lyulph’s town and Paterdale, in
rowing through which I had the satisfaction (and it was a satisfaction of the
highest order) to be drenched with a thunderstorm. But the spirits of the
clouds and the Fells spoke in angry and fearful tones.
My best regards to Mrs. H.
Farewell. S. B.
Of nearly the same date is a letter from Hodgson to Drury, in which a recent
visit to Eton at election-tide is described:—
We dined on a haunch, and went in the evening to a boat on the river,
to see the boats come down, fireworks, etc., etc.; all very gay. Lonsdale was with his family in the next boat. He and
I were very cordial throughout; and I certainly never heard a better sermon than he
preached on Sunday morning in Eton Chapel. I called on all the Fellows and on the
Provost, and was civilly received by all,
kindly by some. George Thackeray, as ever
friendly, and Charles Yonge, the heartiest of
human beings. On the Sunday I dined with Hawtrey, met a large party of
Coleridges, Pattesons, etc., etc.;
pleasant enough, and a most luxurious and even recherché entertainment. Coleridge, the poet’s daughter, a beautiful girl; Nelson Coleridge, a fine rattling fellow, a faint
shadow of poor Bland in early life. Monday,
walked in Long Chamber after speeches, and dined in Hall. Walked up Windsor on Sunday,
and saw the beautiful but utterly destructive alterations in the Castle. It is all
window and no wall. An absolutely modernised, brand-new, Gothic mansion. The ancient
Castle is gone, and
Edward III.’s side broken into oriel
windows, and let down into the Little Park by a succession of French parterres.
On Denman’s receiving his
Patent of Precedence, so long and unjustly withheld by the vindictive animosity of
George IV., Hodgson wrote a letter of cordial congratulation, which was as cordially
acknowledged.1
Bakewell: Dec. 8, 1828.
My dear Denman,—It
is with feelings of the most unfeigned delight that I have just read in the
papers the announcement of the performance of a long-delayed act of justice. If
what is said of a high personage be true, his conduct on this occasion enhances
the value of the act, and makes it approach to an amende honorable. For your friends, although they
must indeed feel on this occasion that ‘Worth makes
the man etc.,’ 2 yet as Prunella
has its value too, they cannot but rejoice at its falling on such worthy
shoulders. God bless you,
1 Quoted by Sir
Joseph Arnould in his Life of Lord
Denman.
2 ‘Worth makes the man, the want of it the fellow; The rest is all but leather and Prunella.’ Pope’sEssay on
Man.
my dear Denman, and your wife and
children. Mrs. Hodgson joins cordially
in the above, and
I am Yours affectionately, F. Hodgson.
December 14, 1828.
My dear Hodgson,—Your friendly remembrance has been more highly
prized than any other of the numerous congratulations we have received. . . .
It is really a very gratifying event, and has been done in such a manner as to
confer honour on all the parties concerned.1 To me it
is an augury ot good feeling and justice and liberality towards that numerous
class who are punished for no crime, and whose punishment does but recoil to
plague the inventors.
We all unite in every good wish to Mrs. Hodgson and yourself, and I need not say
how truly and affectionately
I am always yours, Thos. Denman.
1 It was through the intervention of the Duke of Wellington that the king at last consented to
waive his objection to Denman’s
promotion—an objection which had no sounder foundation than that of personal
pique.
In February of this year, Hobhouse
writes with reference to the forthcoming ‘Memoirs’ of Lord Byron:—
Dear Hodgson,—I
am glad you have seen so much of Mr.
Moore. He is a most jovial person, indeed, and would amalgamate
completely with you. I am also very glad that you like what you have seen of
his book. . . . I have, been exceedingly embarrassed in determining what to do
respecting it. My wish is to help Moore, and yet I so
totally disapprove biography of the modern fashion, that I am unwilling to lend
myself to any such performance.
I did not want your assurance to be convinced you would not
give up letters tending to hurt the feelings of the living, or the fame of the
dead. I think I know you too well; and as Moore must write this life, I am not at all sorry he has had
your assistance. When, or if ever, I come to Bakewell, I shall not forget your
kind invitation.
Yours very truly, J. C. Hobhouse.1
A month later Scrope Davies writes
from Ostend,
1 Afterwards Lord Broughton de
Giffard.
where he was then residing, in a style which gives some idea of the
charm of his companionship, to which Byron bears
testimony in more than one passage of his letters and journal.
My dear Hodgson,—Your letter, having been directed to me paste restante, did not reach me till the 16th day
after its arrival at Ostend. As for Moore’s letter, Heaven only knows how long it has been
slumbering. We have no dead letters here. . . .
Sir James Wedderburn (Webster), whom you
must have met at Newstead, has passed a few days here, on his road to Paris.
Did you ever see Lady Frances? She is
the only person I ever beheld in whom was everything that the eye looks for in
woman. She, and she alone of all whom I have ever seen, had the
‘vultus nimium lubricus
aspici,’ ‘that beauty over which the eye
glides with giddy delight, incapable of fixing upon any particular
charm.’ Goldsmith
makes no acknowledgment to Horace, though he
is indebted to him to the above amount. Sir James has
survived Waterloo, but he
has not survived his love of writing. He makes ‘born’ rhyme to
‘storm,’ and ‘suspect’ rhyme to ‘respect.’
About the latter, in vain do I assert that in English Poetry a rhyme, to be just, should not be
an ‘idem,’ but a ‘simile.’ He goes on rhyming and
reasoning, and both with the same success. I recollect to have heard B. Craven say that he once found some lines on
the breakfast table at Belvoir where ‘women’ was made to rhyme to
‘chimney’ (sic): and a Mr. Elton at Brussels,
when I declared that not one word rhymed to chimney, exclaimed: ‘What do
you say to nimbly?’ The latter is, I have no doubt, perfectly orthodox at
Bristol, as the former was at Belvoir. So that a rhyme is what Voltaire said of religion, a matter of
geography.
Your letter has recalled to my mind scenes the recollection
of which now constitutes my only delight. Bacon somewhere in his letters observes, ‘Aristotle saith young men may be happy by
hope, so why should not old men and sequestered men by
remembrance?’ The past and the future are the sole object of
man’s contemplation. There is no present, or if there is, it is a point
on which we cannot stand. While I am now writing the future becomes the past.
Happiness then is a pursuit, not an attainment. In one of those runs with the
Duke of Rutland’s hounds, when
the fox is killed the sport is over, or to be enjoyed again only in
recollection after dinner.
Will the present ministry stand? Sir R. Wilson says they cannot settle into permanent power. So
Eldon is extinct. I cannot bear to hear
his adulators talking about his giving a decision without turning to the right
or to the left, whereas he looked to the right and to the leftl without giving a decision. But what have I to do with politics?
W. Drury2 is doing well at Brussels. He has upwards of seventy
pupils. In the summer of last year, I encountered Polehampton at Antwerp, and with him
Lewis, the fishing and shooting conduct of Eton. It was
amusing to observe how they viewed everything through a bad pair of English
spectacles.
Adieu! and when you have nothing else to do, write to one
who is out of the world.
Yours truly, Scrope Davies.
I have just escaped a duel for having written a couplet
on an amateur actor.
Not to be hiss’d delights the dunce, But who can groan and hiss at once? 10 Place d’Armes, Ostende.
1 And the Chancellor said, ‘I doubt.’
2 Died 1878, universally beloved and lamented.
It was in this year, 1828-9, that Harry
Drury was a candidate for the Head-mastership of Harrow, in which
candidature he was most unexpectedly defeated by a young man, who had only quite recently
taken his degree, C. J. Longley, afterwards
Archbishop of Canterbury. On this subject Drury himself writes in
January, 1829:—
A thousand hands could not write all the letters I have to
indite. Many thanks for your very judicious and kind testimonials. I have added
sundry Bishops and Heads to my heap; what invaluable men to me are Butler of Shrewsbury, Maltby, and our own dear Bayley,1Sutton, and Frere! All goes on very well. What an infinity of old friends
does this bring out! I find I have 532 friends. Now how like Hawtrey was that sentence! I am still in very
confident hopes of the result, and I am sure that
Batten has no
chance.
Yours ever, H. Drury.
On the same subject, Charles
Yonge, Lower Master at Eton, writes:—
I am very sorry to hear that there is understood to be a probability of
Henry Drury not succeeding at
1Archdeacon
Bayley.
Harrow. This is certainly a most liberal age, but I do think it will
be a most disgraceful transaction if they really determine to set aside the claims of a man
who has now been thirty years in the service, and introduce (as we hear) a young man just
come from college. I shall not, however, believe that he can lose it, until the matter is
decided. Nevertheless, in the present day, we ought not to wonder at any absurdity, any
wickedness, or any treason. Do you know they have been forced to send for a tutor for
King’s from (O portentorum nefas!) St. John’s, who now lectures in
your Chair?
Harrow: December 29, 1828.
My dear Hodgson,—I am just off for Eton on a visit to Keate; and am so heartily tired of writing
letters that I must be brief. If’ the schoolmaster is abroad,’ so
are the saints; they are making prodigious efforts, and so am I. Two Governors
I consider secure; from one of them I have an actual promise. Peel has written privately to me most
encouragingly. I have had a private conference with the Lord Chancellor, who has most zealously assisted me by writing
and canvassing in all directions; and I heard yesterday from good authority
(and if so, I am indebted for it to Lonsdale) that the
Archbishop of Canterbury has written
to Lord Aberdeen, requesting his vote for
me. In short, everybody tells me I am certain of success. I have no opponent as
yet but Mills!!! who has not the chance
of a fraction of a vote. Batten will
only stand if the saints think the case dubious.
Now for you. I have been staying a week at Eton, and this
is what I learn. Carter has a
prescriptive right, as Goodall deems it,
as master (not assistant) to a fellowship whenever he stands.1 And why? Because, in the examination before the House of Commons,
the Provost declared that the Masters were provided for
by fellowships; Jesuitically saying afterwards, that he meant by Masters only the Head and Lower Masters. My friends are
very numerous and very zealous, and perhaps a little too confident.
Ever most sincerely yours, H. Drury.
I have heard from Tom
Moore this morning.
Soon after the election Lonsdale
writes:—
Henry Drury bears his disappointment admirably.
His account of the new state of things at Harrow
1Hodgson
was at this time a candidate for an Eton fellowship.
is most satisfactory, and the feelings which he expresses on the
subject most honourable to him.
Drury himself writes:—
Derbyshire has become formidable in distance to one who has
scaled the Alps, and looked down on the sun rising over the Adriatic. I
certainly get less and less locomotive, and ‘I rue it,’ as
Goodall did something else; but I
long very much to be with you for a few days. I walk much, very much, less than
I did, not so much from advancing age as from the want of a companion. I cannot
bear to carry off the boys from their amusements, and my girls and wife are
sorry amblers.
Butler has written to press us all, in the most warm letter, to come to him at
Shrewsbury for a fortnight or more. My brother Charles is on the Rhine. But prudence says ‘no’ to
a scheme which would otherwise be delightful; and which would bring us in
certain contact with you. At present, I have promised Longley (who is also invited) to go with him:
but it may not be. Well!! To-day is Montem. How different now from when we
attended it as corporals or polemen! Do you remember Corporal Cheesement? Sir W. Milman and Polehampton dine with me to-morrow. Thirty-two years ago the
former would not have sat down to table with the latter. There has been no
reaction here whatever since Longley’s enthronement.
I am rather in low spirits.
Ever your sincere old friend, H. Drury.
On the seal of this letter is a musical stave with the words ‘Good
night, all’s well,’ a harmonious termination to so bitter a disappointment as
Drury must have experienced in his defeat.
Lonsdale, now the incumbent of a large London
parish, corresponded occasionally about this time with Hodgson, chiefly on religious subjects. In a letter on the vexed question
of regeneration he writes:—
I have attentively looked over your report, the regulations stated in
which appear to me very carefully and judiciously drawn up. . . . I saw the attack upon
Bishop Monk (and other Bishops, etc.) in the
‘Record,’ which is quite the organ of a certain party in the Church, and is
very well supported by them, as they make it a point of conscience to take it in.
Nothing can be more uncandid than the general tone of the
criticism; and the dislike of the writer to our friend, and such as him, is cordial
enough. But I must say, entre nous, that the
sermon does neither him nor the cause much credit, as a composition; though I quite
agree with you in thinking that it affords no ground for a charge of heterodoxy.
The regeneration question is indeed a vexatious and a hopeless one;
though I do not see that it need be so, if truth and charity, and not faction, were the
leading principles with the disputers. I cannot, however, allow that blame attaches to
both sides in equal proportions. The Bishop of
Chester, I think, somewhere suggests recourse in this case to the method
so strongly recommended by your old friend Locke, viz.: a definition of ‘regeneration’ by the contending
parties before dispute. It would thus be found that they who contend for baptismal
regeneration, do not attach those ideas to the term, which they are accused of doing by
their opponents.
I will not talk about the Reform Bill with you—I doubt with you
we should not agree—not even upon the principle. Hallam, whose authority on such a question must have great weight, is
decidedly against those with whom all his notions and habits would lead him to agree—the
Whigs—on the present occasion. Have you seen the weekly newspaper, set up and
edited by Arnold, the master of Rugby—the
‘Englishman’s
Register?’ Four numbers are out; it is worth looking at. He is a decided
reformer. The first article, entitled ‘Our
Object,’ will put you at once in possession of his views. Fancy Keate being the conductor of a newspaper, in addition
to his labours as teacher, legislator, executioner, etc.1
The occupations of a Head-master some fifty years ago were not so
strictly limited, as in the present day, to school work and discipline. Dr. Keate held a canonry at Windsor, as well as a living;
the multifarious avocations of Dr. Butler of
Shrewsbury are touchingly described in the following letter:—
My dear friend,—Nothing has occasioned my silence but
incessant, wearing, and exhaustive occupation. My papers now lie in heaps two
feet high on two tables. I am in the midst of drawing petitions to both houses
of Parliament respecting our school lawsuit, the perusal of papers for which is
enough for a moderate man’s life; the assistance I am giving to the
memoirs of Parr; the dreadful labour of
doing what no man ever yet has
done—ascertaining the quantities (by reference) of proper names for an
index to my maps, besides my usual labours with a fifth and sixth form of 120
boys, and the care and superintendence of all the rest, and of my archdeaconry,
the latter a far more troublesome office than you may imagine; add to this some
thirty or forty workmen who require some little superintendence (and even a
little adds to what is much) and who have been now near five months at work,
building me a house in the school-lane, the whole of which I have purchased,
pulled down, and am rebuilding, and you may well imagine I am not able to reply
by return of post.
I have fresh plagues at Kenilworth,1 which in the course of the last eight months will have cost me
near four years of the clear income it produces. I heartily wish I had resigned
it ten years ago. But a truce to torments which irritate me of late by their
apparently endless multiplication.
The successes of his favourite pupil, now Greek professor at Cambridge,
must have been some consolation to the over-worked Head-master, who thus curtly announces
them:—
1 His living.
Greek ode: B. H.
Kennedy; Latin ode: B. H. Kennedy; Person Prize:
B. H. Kennedy. O rare Ben! so my dream has not gone by
contraries.
About this time Denman writes on
various subjects, ecclesiastical and political, in a somewhat desultory style, of which the
following fragment is a fair specimen:—
Do you know Townshend, the
anti-Catholic champion? I was thrown into acquaintance and conversation with him for
some hours (before a committee of the H. of C.), and rather interested by his
conversation. Though he writes all on one side, he reads and buys all on all, and
brought with him two of the best pro-Catholic pamphlets, which I had not read before.
One of them, Lord Holland’sletter to Dr.
Shuttleworth, is really on one point, the recent conversions and their
effect on the great question, most admirable. I wonder whether Dr.
S. will answer in print. Brougham
writes that it will be hard indeed for C.1 to be obliged to
make Philpott and Copleston bishops, and Copley
Chancellor, for deserting and abusing him and his principles.
1Canning.
Drury continued to bear his failure cheerfully, and
soon wrote again in the genial style which characterised him:—
Three Governors have assured me that the prize was mine
unanimously, had not Longley accepted;
and that no word of disrespect to me was ever breathed; that all my competitors
were deemed totally incompetent; but that the abstract idea of a ‘young
Cam stranger’ was from the first sure to weigh over any claims,
testimonials, or private friendship. And the matter of the election having now
past . . . I cannot but congratulate Harrow on the acquisition it is likely to
make, in a man at the same time so popular and so able as Mr.
Longley, who, in a visit he has been paying me of a week,
appears to me to have no other fault, but a predominant love of music. He and I
are determined to act together in a most friendly and energetic manner. We are
already sworn brothers. I feel no jealousy of him; am convinced, however ill I
have been used, all is for the best; and look forward to bright and brilliant
days once more for old Harrow.
Longley will introduce all I intended, I
believe, and I trust (which I would and declared I should have done) will gradually get rid of flogging, at
least above the fourth form. I have recommended him to do private modern
literature twice a week, of nights, with his upper boys. He will alter nothing
of the basis of the system. He is to take no private pupils. Under these
circumstances I should have lost half my income by my success. He gives up
£2,000 per annum and only finds seven boys in Butler’s house.
I suppose the fellowship at Eton was decided yesterday.1Keate and the masters have been finely
hoaxed about the great eight oar. The boys drest up cads to represent them, as
Keate threatened expulsion to going on the water
before Easter. The boys declared they would go. Accordingly all the masters, on
horse and foot, assembled at the Brocas. The boys lined all the hedges and
hooted them. The great eight appeared, rowed to Surley Hall, the masters all
following, and back again, masters crying out, ‘Lord So and So, I know
you.’ ‘Watson, you had better come to shore,’ etc. All
Windsor and Eton out. The joke was so well kept up that they returned to the
Brocas, the masters still on the bank, and disem-
1 This letter is quoted in part by Mr. Maxwell Lyte in his History of
Eton College.
barked before they were discovered, or an idea formed but
that they were Etonians. Keate then declared that there
should be no Easter holidays, unless victims were given up. Some twenty of
those who lined the hedges were then immolated; but, though most of the masters
enjoy the joke, Keate sits in sullen retirement and eats
his own soul.
I am going to spend the day at Hounslow, to see the
glorious Protestant procession to Windsor. I suppose the Duke of Wellington, who is decidedly aiming at
the sovereignty, will lie in ambush at Colnbrook, and make another Bridge of
Lodi at Longford.
The beautiful old church at Bakewell was in urgent need of
restoration—a work to which Hodgson applied
himself with his usual energy, and to which he thus alludes in a letter to Drury:—
The tower of our old church is taken down, and without loss of life
or limb to the workmen. But a part of the building is so decayed that, in propping it
the other day (nam sic labentibus obstat villicus—i.e. the churchwarden), it gave such symptoms of nodding to a fall that the
labourers desisted in alarm. A pleasant prospect!
Lonsdale’s next letter refers to the Divine
Government of mankind.
I cannot but say to you that I cordially agree in your general view of the high matters upon which you have
written. Your instances of predisposition appear to me
very happily chosen; nor do I see that any conclusion but that to which you
have come, can possibly be drawn from them. Still it will hardly be contended
that very many individuals, equally well predisposed with those mentioned by
you, have not existed, to whom the same degree of favour has not been shown.
And with regard to nations, the Jews are continually spoken of in Scripture as
having enjoyed their peculiar privileges, ‘because God had a favour unto
them,’ with respect at least to their own qualities; though undoubtedly
with express reference to the good qualities of their
father Abraham. No less clear is it, that very different
portions have been assigned to different nations throughout the world, in the
dispensations both of nature and of grace. I think you misunderstood me when
you thought me ‘disposed to allow too little to the God of nature.’
I perfectly agree with you as to the plain meaning of those passages in which
God is spoken of as not having ‘left Himself
without witness,’ and as having given ‘a law in the hearts’
of men; and which Ellis, in his
‘Knowledge of Divine
Things,’ appears to me to have in vain endeavoured to explain
away, if I remember him right. As perfectly do I concur with you (God forbid
that I should not) in a conviction that, whatever may be the import of
‘certain texts,’ all things will in the end appear to have worked
together for good, as far as the freedom allowed to men (for purposes even by
us discernible as wise) would permit.
The result, however, of efforts which we cannot hope to
surpass, forces upon us the conclusion, that the clouds and darkness round
about ‘God’s dealings with man,’ must ever remain, in a very
great degree, impenetrable, while we continue what we are. Still, there is
light in the Gospel amply sufficient for guidance and consolation to the humble
and sober mind. The ‘quiet day,’ to which you look forward, will be
fully as gratifying to me, as to yourself. In the meantime believe me,
Dear Hodgson, Always sincerely yours, John Lonsdale.
A letter from Denman to his second
daughter, afterwards Mrs. Hodgson, contains an allusion illustrative of
Denman’s ardent admiration of Fox.
Holkham:1 1829-30.
It is just midnight. The old year is in the act of leaving
us, and the new year is darting into his place, when I address you, my dear
Bess, from my solitary, but superb and tapestried, chamber, with all possible
good wishes that the flight of time may be constantly marked with new blessings
to you. We are taking holiday with Mr.
Coke, who is all kindness and hospitality; Lady Anne unaffected, good-humoured, and very sensible and
entertaining; the four boys perfect models of health, playfulness, and
hardihood. . . . I wish you could see Sir
Joshua’s original picture of Fox, painted for Lord
Crewe, and left by his lordship to
Coke;—the finest picture
Reynolds ever painted, and one of the finest faces the
Almighty ever formed. There is something inexpressibly attractive in the old
gossip relating to him with which this place abounds.
We have been riding on the sea-sands among the wild geese
to-day, and are to visit Hoghton, Lord
Orford’s seat, to-morrow.
1 The seat of Mr. Coke,
afterwards Earl of Leicester.
CHAPTER XX. LETTERS FROM MRS. LEIGH—TO
MOORE—FROM BUTLER, THE BISHOPS OF
GLOUCESTER AND LINCOLN, THE DUKE OF RUTLAND,
MERIVALE, ROGERS—DEATH OF HIS FIRST
WIFE—APPOINTMENT TO THE ARCHDEACONRY OF DERBY. 1830-36.
In several of her letters written about the time of the
publication of Moore’s ‘Life and Letters,’ Mrs. Leigh expresses great concern at the manifold
misrepresentations of her brother’s character to which that work gave rise, and
declares her unfeigned disgust at the various attacks which were made from different
quarters upon one who was no longer able to defend himself. More especially was she
displeased with the treachery and cupidity which noted all his idle words.
Some years after his death, all communication between Lady Byron and Mrs.
Leigh came to an end, in consequence of some inexplicable caprice of the former, who would not even answer the
letters of her husband’s sister. Mrs. Leigh was at first most
anxious to maintain a sisterly friendship; but when Lady Byron’s
statement in answer to Moore’s account of the
separation appeared, this anxiety was considerably lessened, and eventually disappeared
altogether.
Hodgson was always particularly desirous that a
reconciliation should be effected, if only for the purpose of bringing his friend’s
child into closer communion with that sweet
sister who had been the better angel of his hapless lifetime; and on one occasion had been
informed by Mrs. Robert Arkwright of some kind words
uttered by Lady Byron with reference to her
husband’s family. On hearing these, Mrs.
Leigh, in one of her letters to Hodgson, expresses her
gratitude for the feeling which dictated them, and adds a remark once made by Lord Byron, when writing of his wife:—
She had need be kind to some of us, and I am glad she has had the heart
or the discernment to be kind to you.
Mrs. Leigh goes on to entreat Hodgson ‘never to let an opportunity go by of seeing
Ada,’ and more especially from any feeling
for her.
I would not for worlds (she continues) stand in the way of that dear child seeing one so devotedly attached to her father. The very
atmosphere she breathed would be the better and purer for your presence. It seems hard
that I never see her or hear of her but by chance, but like all other hardships must be
borne.
At the exclusion of her beloved brother’s monument from Westminster
Abbey, a most natural indignation prompted some very pathetic observations.
After all, dear Mr. H., look at the works of those
who have monuments there!—and I do think there is bien de quoi of sublime and beautiful in his works on religious
subjects to redeem, what is objectionable; but I am a partial
judge. Still I do feel that the more one loves a person, the more alive one is to their
failings. I long to hear from you on this subject, as well as many others.
On the appearance of the second volume of Moore’s work, similar thoughts arise.
Surely, dear Mr. H., the bright brilliancy breaks
through, and, at last, dashes away the darkness which at times enveloped his better
feelings. Poor fellow! I only wish those who read it would be a quarter as lenient as those who knew and loved him
must be. I long to hear what you think of this book. I have been dreadfully annoyed at
certain passages, and the worst is to come, I suppose. What will Lady B. do or say? What can she? And yet if she is quiet
she must writhe under the torture! But she may thank herself either for her own
sufferings, or the contumely which will rest on his memory! A few gentle words, instead of that despicable tirade on the last volume, would
have secured her the esteem and pity of all the world, and prevented what has and may
follow. It is worse than useless to reason on the probable conduct of such a person, so
I will not lose my time in the attempt. I know nothing of her or dear Ada, except second hand. I hear
the latter is still on crutches, and the health of the former seems as usual
fluctuating. I must, however, tell you a little anecdote.
On the 10th Dec. (Ada’s
birthday) I could not resist sending her some little token of my remembrance. I
selected a Prayer-book (the Book of Common Prayer, in two volumes, with the Lessons
bound up with it). I had them nicely bound, and Ada, in Old English characters, engraved on the back, and
wrote her name and the date inside, put them up directed
‘To the Hon. Miss Byron, with every kind and affectionate
wish,’ and wrote over this, ‘With Lady
Byron’s permission.’ In another outside envelope directed
them to Lady B; sent them booked by coach; . . . and . . . have
never heard one word since.
Again on Lady B.’s statement,
with reference to the separation, an outburst of sisterly feeling finds utterance in
another letter:—
I am always afraid of the impetuosity of my feelings on such occasions
(of which I am fully aware) making me uncharitable. God forgive her if she has made me what I never was before, or believed I could be; but I
will not dwell on my own feelings; you can guess them. If it was not my own dear
brother whom it concerned, I do think I should still feel disgusted at such unfeeling
conduct. I agree in every word you write on the subject. I have always thought that
there was nothing in the whole world but the welfare of one’s children which
could induce one, or justify one, in abandoning one’s husband! She may have
considered this point, but she ought to have behaved differently. At any rate, now that he is defenceless in the tomb. . . . What has she to gain
now that he is powerless to
injure or oppress her in any way? I do think nothing, were it ever so bad, could
possibly justify any one in defaming the dead.
Peace be with their ashes, for by them, If merited, the penalty is paid. It is not ours to judge, far less condemn; The hour must come when such things shall be made Known unto all, or hope or dread allay’d By slumber in one pillow, in the dust, Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay’d, And, when it shall revive, as is our trust, ’T will be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just.
On this subject Drury
writes:—
What a mess has Tom Moore by
his inadvertency stirred up about Lord Byron! One
would have thought he had more tact, but in fact his conduct to you, and even to me,
was enough to prove his want of it. The character of Byron will be
condemned for ever among his haters, and among his lovers strange suspicions must hover
about, unless Lady B. or Lushington break silence.
To this Hodgson answers:—
I have indeed too fully seen the late wretched matters about poor dear
Byron and his ruined memory! My God! how cruel,
how utterly revengeful, is the letter of his widow! Do you for a moment give her credit for being actuated by regard to her
parent’s memory? If so, that would
have been the prominent part of the letter, and dwelt upon most, but it occupies a most
inadequate space; and the rest shows the real reason for her breaking silence: pique at being described as so ill-suited a wife for
Byron. Doubtless this was provoking enough; and one could
hardly have wondered at her resenting it on the spur of the moment. But when this is so
evidently the real cause of her speaking out, her laying it on filial feelings is as
shallow as it is hypocritical. But, alas! I fear the evil has only commenced.
Before the appearance of Moore’s second volume, Hodgson
sent several suggestions, by way of amendment, for Moore’s consideration.
The Vicarage, Bakewell: February 20, 1830.
My dear Moore,—I
have much to say, and my preface must be short; only let it be satisfactory,
and induce you to receive the following remarks in the same spirit in which
they are offered. I am far from presuming that they are all of importance, but
I earnestly wish that if any may be so, they may assist you in
preventing or removing any future regrets on your own part, or in precluding
any mischief that might arise from unfounded or unexplained opinions, sent into
the world with the double authority of Byron
and his biographer. I will refer you rather to subjects thrown together, than
to pages in regular order. At the risque of repetition I will suggest again
that what is recorded of Captain
Byron,1 while unattended at least with
any mitigating circumstances, could never have been, to say the least of it,
welcome to our friend. To amend this, I refer you to the letter in the
‘Representative,’ of which I only spoke from hearsay; and also to
the report I have heard2 of Captain
B.’s proper and affectionate attentions to his first wife
in her last illness. Thus much for our friend’s father. As to his unhappy
mother, if an additional word could
be thrown in, to show his struggle to be more attached to her than she would
generally let him be (testified by his repeatedly saying in his lifetime, as I
have heard, ‘my poor mother!’ and other expressions of the same
kind), it might help to soften the unfilial way of mentioning her, which
appears in some of the letters.
1 The poet’s father. 2 Probably from Mrs.
Leigh.
With regard to his attainments, it is utterly impossible that
B., with the life he led, should, at the
age of nineteen, have read Livy and Tacitus through in the Latin, and Thucydides, Xenophon, and Plutarch in
the Greek. As to Thucydides, I feel convinced that while I
knew him he never could have thoroughly understood the speeches in the original
without the greatest difficulty, and more pains than he was likely to take. He
must mean that he read these authors in translations. He talks, indeed, of
different languages, but the statement should have been more distinct;
otherwise it is calculated to convey a false impression, and lend a weight to
his reputation for scholarship, which may be very injuriously transferred to
his opinions on the most important subjects.
With reference to Byron’s desire
of fame as an orator, Hodgson writes:—
There is no doubt of this. This desire was warmly cherished, and for a
considerable time maintained. Previously to his first speech, he repeatedly mentioned
to me at Newstead his decided resolution of distinguishing himself, if possible, in
Parliament, and was taking some pains for that purpose! Would to God that he had
persevered in so noble a determination, but he was
shipwrecked on the shore of the Island of Pleasure. As to his ill-fated attachment, it
did not follow but preceded his going to
Cambridge; and if you will attentively re-examine your interpretation of those lines, For by the death-blow of my hope My memory immortal grew; (which, by the bye, haunt my mind as if they were a plagiarism) I think you will
find reason to agree with your unknown correspondent, that (ingenious as your own
interpretation is) they have reference to love alone. Forgiveness to the injured doth belong. Is not this Dryden’s enlarged from
Tacitus?
I come now to very different points. In page 129, you speak from B.
himself of ‘desponding, not sneering scepticism,’ being the character of
some lines in ‘Childe
Harold,’ and very properly point out the important distinction between
these two evils. But, alas! it was not only in after life that he lost sight of that
distinction.
What you say about self-libelling, though very clever and well
founded, will not counteract that love for bad belief which too
many in the world rejoice to indulge on any, the slightest, grounds, and is, indeed, calculated to give colour, however faint, to
those dark surmises and imputations which people are but too ready to found upon some
(purposely, I believe, but most unnecessarily) mysterious parts of Byron’s story.
Early in the following year Hodgson
had the deep sorrow of losing his only sister, to
whom he was devotedly attached. She was married to her first cousin, the Rev. Geo. Coke, and was possessed of considerable talents
and a remarkable sweetness of disposition, to which her sister-in-law, Miss
Coke, thus refers: ‘We often talk of her music for hours, for with her
it was not an acquirement, it was as a part of herself, who was all harmony and joy.’
The next letter, from Dr. Butler,
affords an illustration of the fact that rapid travelling was not altogether unknown even
before the days of locomotion by steam, and proves the former influence of the Crown over
public school destinies.
Shrewsbury: May 10, 1831.
My dear friend,—. . . I am sorry to hear of your
serious family affliction. . . . By dint of having bespoken post-horses, I left
Shrewsbury at five in the morning on Wednesday, and reached Cam-bridge by ten that night, having
accomplished 154 miles in 17 hours. Voted the next day—I will not say to
no purpose, because I am glad to have my vote recorded, as exempting me from
the disgrace that has fallen on the University—and returned hither
(having gone to town from Cambridge, and stayed there a whole day) on Saturday
night. Last week I received His
Majesty’s commands for a week’s holidays to be
prefixed to the summer vacation, accompanied with a letter, written to the boys
by the Lord Chancellor1 in very good Latin, and admonishing them not to let
this indulgence make them idle. Lord
Bacon could have done as much, but was too cold-hearted.
Sir Thomas More might have done it,
but we were not founded till near twenty years after his death. Who else on the
woolsack would?
Yours truly, S. Butler.
Of nearly the same date is an anecdote, by Drury, of another Head-master, of still greater official celebrity:—
I suppose you heard of the King
insisting to take up Keate in his carriage to
the boats (on the 4th of
1Brougham.
June), and the Don declining, as he did not
know there was such a thing.
Butler made the most of his royally extended
holiday, and sends a joyous and picturesque description of his surroundings at Beaumaris.
I got home on Saturday night, and set off for this place, where I
found all well on Monday. To-day brings an account of the festivities at Shrewsbury, in
the shape of bell-ringing, cannon-firing, and public dinnering, in honour of
Tom’s wedding, and a short note from himself at Bristol,
saying, ‘at last I am really married.’ Now, his engagement having been
about seven months standing, the at last rather amused us. . . .
We are now in the finest spot under the blessed heaven. The house is
one of ten now building, of actual marble, of a very good colour, a kind of dove
colour, but with a slight reddish tint, which looks extremely well in its unpolished
state, and polishes into a very handsome marble for interior uses. Within a
stone’s throw is the sea, just at the opening of the Menai Straits, and expanding
on the left into the open Irish Channel. It is here about 2½ miles or 3 miles
wide, just opposite our windows, and is bounded on
the other side by the whole range of Snowdonia and the highest Welsh mountains. It is
always gay with fishing or pleasure-boats, varied occasionally by larger vessels
passing down the Straits to Bangor or Carnarvon, or up from thence. The Menai Bridge
hangs like a thread on air at about 4 miles distant. Exactly in front of our windows,
across the water, is the pretty village of Aber, with its white church and houses
peeping through a thick foliage of oaks, a little to the left Pen maen maur and the
tremendous cliffs of the Ormeshead; and from the back of the house we see Beaumaris
Castle, about 100 yards from us, and the magnificent woods of Baron Hill. In front,
between our windows and the sea, is, not a heap of sand-hills, but a lawn of turf, as
green and as smooth as the best bowling-green, to the water’s edge. The house we
are in is large and commodious, fit for any family; and in order to receive these
advantages I have been guilty of an infidelity to Barmouth, and have just bought one of
these marble palaces, considerably larger than that which we inhabit, but which will
not be quite ready for our reception till next year. I bought so large a house that we
might all be at the sea and enjoy ourselves together. Whenever you and Mrs. Hodgson can come to us, we shall rejoice to see
you.
In December of this year, 1831, Hodgson published a little book entitled ‘Sacred Lyrics,’ in acknowledging which the
Bishop of Gloucester expressed himself much
pleased with this ‘contribution to the cause of sound learning and religious
education,’ adding:—
As indeed I have been with everything which proceeded from your pen. A
long time ago you told me that you meant to revise and republish what I have always
considered the most poetical and most powerful translation of ‘Juvenal.’
The Bishop of Lincoln1 writes:—
I am much gratified by this proof of your recollection of me. Many
years have elapsed since we met. If I am not mistaken, our last meeting was at
Scrope Davies’s room; Lord Byron and Dr.
Clarke were present; and in the evening, Spencer Perceval came to be introduced to Lord
Byron. I particularly remember that you argued with Lord
Byron the question, determined by Locke in the
1Kaye.
negative, whether there
is an innate notion of the Deity. Of the party two are gone to their account;
Davies is an exile; you are engaged, as you ought not to be
engaged, in teaching pupils; Spencer Perceval in a harder task
than any imposed on Hercules, that of endeavouring to bring the
House of Commons to a sense of Religion; and I am placed in a situation, which, though
at other times greatly coveted, is not at present either enviable or safe. But what
situation is safe?
In the summer of the next year (1832), June 19, Harry Drury writes in his usual easy style:—
You seem to have exhausted all the stores of literature in
reading with your pupil. . . . Lord Darnley
and I talked you over very cheerfully the other day. I have been entertaining
the Bishop of Exeter, and Lockhart; otherwise all has been most
monotonous, except a dinner last Saturday at the sweetest villa in England, at
Highwood Hill, with Knight, M.P., the
Chancery barrister, to meet all the celebrated antiquaries. . . .
When do you return? I cannot make and break another promise,
but when do you return?—emphatically or promiscuously, as Ben Sheppard would say. I have not seen Eton since I dined there with
Keate at Easter. Butler, of Shrewsbury, dines with me, tête-à-tête, at six this evening, on his
way from Shrewsbury to Beaumaris. Harry,1 who is with us, wants me to
take him to Rome by the steam-boat. I should not hesitate, but I dread the
expense of posting once more to the south of France. The steamer sails every
other day from Toulon, touches at Genoa, Leghorn, Civita Vecchia, and enters,
plenis subit Ostia velis, anchoring at the Ponte
Milvio and Pons Sublicius. The whole, from Harrow, might be easily done in nine
days, without hurrying; but it must not be, at least this summer. Besides, the
absurd abbreviation of travelling now takes away from the prestige. Byron3 is in Achaia,
and, literally (I am not joking), made standard-bearer in the Peloponnesus,
where he is going through a campaign by land with 150 troops against 800
Romeliots and Souliots.
The club triumphant! and Denman Lord Chief Justice. I am happier at the event than can
be described. He is a man who has never truckled to any party, but, in
singleness of soul, kept the even tenor of his way. Recepto dulce mihi furere est
1 Afterwards Archdeacon Drury.
2 His son, now Admiral Byron Drury.
amico! All the Merivales are
staying with us, and Denman is the toast from morning till
night.
On the same day Butler
writes:—
I had an invitation to dine with Drury at Harrow to-day. Next Tuesday I hope we shall meet; and
the next day, as soon as ever I have shown my face at the levée, I shall be off for Beaumaris, where all my family are,
and where I long to be catching mermaids and bobbing for whale.
It is thought that the country at large will be disappointed
in the effect of the Reform Bill. They who have no right to expect anything
always expect the most, and must always be disappointed.
All the world concur in abhorrence of the attack on the
Duke of Wellington yesterday.1 I was in Holborn and Lincoln’s Inn Fields about
half-an-hour after, but saw nothing of it. His windows are barricaded with
iron, musket proof. What a horrible sign of the times in England!
The Church, I think, is more than in danger. Some more
sanguine than myself are not so desponding. But I see no hope. For when any
rational plan of reform is brought forward, Lord
1 June 18, the anniversary of Waterloo.
King and Dan
O’Connell will start up in their respective Houses and
knock it on the head. It is their interest to stop all rational and moderate
plans, in order to effect a total overthrow. Therefore happy they who, like me,
have been pluralists without ever receiving a clear £150 a year from the
Church, in any year save one, when a lucky fine nearly doubled the average
clear income.
December 4, 1832.
I think I sent you a paper with an account of the royal
visit. It was all couleur de rose, as
was that of the Duke of Sussex six weeks
before, but His Royal Highness has been
long a kind and gracious friend to me. I am getting up a local committee for
Abbotsford, which brings me to talk of books. Have you read the ‘String of Pearls?’ pray
do. The ‘Highland
Smugglers,’—also worthy of perusal, and ‘Zohrab, the
Hostage’—very. Next to books, elections. We shall send
probably eleven, very possibly twelve, ultra Tories from this county, which
sends in all twelve members. At Cambridge I am in hopes we shall turn out one
ultra, and I hope we shall not try for more, for if we do we shall lose both.
As to mater ecclcsia—quæstio
vexatissima, brother Francisce, Lord Henley is clearly the tool of the saints to which party he
belongs, and they, having purchased up almost all the small livings that can be
sold, would be very glad to have them enlarged out of the spoils of cathedrals.
In the autumn of 1833, Hodgson had
the great affliction of losing his wife, who died
after a short illness at the house of her husband’s relatives, the Cokes, in
Herefordshire. This bereavement induced him to seek an exchange for the living of Bakewell,
where the associations and memories would henceforth be of so depressing a nature. The
Duke of Rutland, on hearing of his determination,
wrote a most kind and sympathetic letter.
Stanton Woodhouse: December 23, 1833.
My dear sir,—I am exceedingly sorry that I was absent
from home when you were so kind as to call here, and that my departure this
morning will prevent me from the pleasure of seeing you during my stay in this
county. I hope you do not believe that because I did not write to you some time
since, I did not most sincerely sympathise with and feel for you. I made
inquiries concerning you from our mutual friend Coke, and
he gave me intelligence of you from time to time. He showed me your letter to him a few days since, and I beg you to be
assured that the only feeling I have on the subject of your Incumbency at
Bakewell, is that of pride, at having been instrumental in placing so
distinguished an ornament of the clerical profession there. I am very certain
that your cession of that living, whenever it takes place, will occasion but
one sensation of regret and concern.
Believe me, dear sir, Your very faithful servant, Rutland.
A letter from Merivale, in January
of the next year (1834), on religious subjects, contains some interesting remarks on human
notions of the Deity.
Tell me in your next (he writes) if my opinions be consistent with
sound orthodoxy. In a long discourse, and in many respects a very admirable one, which I have just
been reading, by Sedgwick, on the course of
study at Cambridge, after combating the system of utility, which ‘brings down
virtue from a heavenly throne, and places her on an earthly tribunal, where her
decisions, no longer supported by any holy sanction, are distorted by judicial
ignorance, and tainted by base passion’ (a sentiment in which I fully concur),
he goes, as it seems to me, a little too far in representing our utter incapacity of
forming any just notion of the attributes of the Deity, as if, in speaking of the
Benevolence, or the Mercy, or the Justice of God, we were using terms the meaning of
which we are wholly unable to comprehend, when applied to a Being the very mode of
whose existence is to us an inexplicable mystery. Now this is a sort of doctrine to
which I cannot possibly yield my assent. On the contrary, when we assume, as capable of
strict proof, those Divine attributes, it seems to me that we must know what it is that we consider the fit subject of demonstration, and
that, however incapable we may be of exalting our conceptions to the degree of perfection, or of reconciling by our reason the co-existence of
such as are seemingly at variance with each other in the scheme of God’s moral
government, still, in speaking of God’s Justice and Benevolence and Mercy, we are
speaking of the very same qualities, however different in degree, as those of which we
are practically sensible in our intercourse with mankind, and therefore that it is
sound logic, as well as good orthodoxy, to say that such and such result cannot be true
because it is irreconcilable with the Divine Perfection to
suppose the contrary. But where I merely intended to furnish you with a text I must not
myself begin by preaching you a sermon. . . .
A month later Merivale
writes:—
How earnestly do I wish, my very dear friend, and yet how little can I
expect, to hear of you as restored to all your usual habits of mental employment and
activity! Time only can work so great a blessing, and to Time we must confidently look
for it, Reason and Religion having so well prepared their parts. Walford told me of your late correspondence, and I
wish most sincerely that the exchange he had in view would have suited you, much as I
still wish that your dream of solitude and retirement were dissipated, and your mind
disposed to look, rather with desire, towards the more cheerful and active duties of
life: I do not mean the cares of such a parish as Bakewell, which may, on many
accounts, be oppressive to you. Those, on the contrary, of a London
incumbency—especially in the City, where there are comparatively few
residents—I cannot believe you would find either so onerous or irksome as you at
present fancy them; and they would leave you ample leisure for the society of those friends
who know best how to value you.
A few characteristic lines from Rogers were received by Hodgson,
just after a visit to London, in June of this year:—
My dear sir,—Many, many thanks! I can assure you that
kindness such as yours is not thrown away upon me, and is some consolation for
the loss I experienced, while you were in London, and I was out of it—a
loss I felt severely, for I like nothing half so much as to talk over old
matters with an old friend.
Moore has not appeared among us this
Spring—his first omission for many years. I suppose he is very anxious to
proceed with his ‘History of
Ireland.’
You are now in your beautiful country, and must always be
very unwilling to leave it; but when you come this way again, I shall hope to
be more fortunate, if I am still in this world.
Yours ever, Saml. Rogers.
Rogers lived twenty-one years after the date of this letter, although he was then more than seventy years of age.
To understand the political allusions in the next letter from Merivale, written on November 18, 1834, it is necessary to
recall the facts that in the previous week Lord Spencer
had died, the Melbourne Ministry had been dissolved,
and the Keys of Office had been entrusted to the Duke of
Wellington, pending Sir Robert
Peel’s return from Italy.
And was I not a prophet when I whispered through the hole in
the rock to our good friend,1 ‘Beware of
Brougham’? He has, to be sure,
and I thank Heaven for it, escaped the wreck; but what a goodly and gallant
vessel has foundered under the guidance of this its most splendidly gifted, but
incautious and (may I not add) reckless and unprincipled steersman! I hope I
shall not be accused—certainly not by you—of cant. But really, in
the full confidence of friendship, I cannot but say that I see, in all that is
now passing around us, the fullest confirmation of the persuasion of the utter
insufficiency of man’s corrupt and degraded nature, unaided by the Divine
grace, and by a deep inward conviction of its own weakness. A very
1Denman.
strong moral principle,
founded on a broad philosophical basis, may to a certain, but a very imperfect,
extent, supply this grand deficiency,—but even this was wanting in the
quarter to which I allude—and the fall, as it is (I am persuaded),
irrevocable, so it will prove most momentous, in the shape of example, to such
as are in a condition to profit by it. You, I am sure, will bear with remarks
such as these, in all their sober seriousness. Very few are there, besides
yourself, to whom I would breathe them.
As for the event itself, whatever may be the immediate
causes—in whatever manner brought about—I have been too long
impressed with the daily increasing conviction of the absolute necessity of
making a firm and determined stand against popular encroachments, now to
hesitate about the duty of every honest citizen, unfettered by party
engagements, to rally round the throne and its chosen ministers, so long at
least as they possess the essential principles of Reform in Church and State
which I presume no minister at the present day can do otherwise than adopt for
the colours of his administration. The only solid ground of difference between
the outgoing and incoming occupiers, that I can discover, is the inviolability
of Church property; and upon this ground I am inclined to
believe, though not without occasional misgivings, that the moderate Tories
may, at the present period, securely take their stand. So far as the state of
public feeling through the country at large may be judged of by that of the
metropolis, they are in no danger whatever. Not the smallest excitement in the
populace, the failure of every attempt (so far, at least) to get up the
semblance of a strong public meeting, the non-depression of the Funds, the
general satisfaction upon ‘Change, the unequivocal ebullitions of loyalty
at the City dinner, and even such lesser indications as are afforded by the
hissing of Brougham and cheering of
Lyndhurst (!!!) as they respectively
left the audience chamber, besides other similar demonstrations—all these
are, I think, amply sufficient to warrant the belief that a great and extensive
reaction has taken place, and that the mountebank tricks and grimaces which
have so long been exhibited in high quarters have produced the effect of
irretrievably disgusting even the lowest of that mob which so recently threw up
their caps in applause of the actor.
O but man—proud man— Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he’s most assured, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before High Heaven As make the angels weep.
Among divers anecdotes, more or less vrais or vraisemblables, the following, which I have just
heard, will amuse you—that the greeting of Majesty to Lord Melbourne,
when he stated the difficulties of their position, was conveyed in the
following nautical terms:—‘My Lord, you need say nothing.
Lord Spencer is gone to Heaven; and
my mind has long been made up that, whenever that event happened, it would
be high time to send you all to the ——.’ By way of
appendix I must state that one of the romances of the day is that it is all a
device to get rid of Brougham, and that the
new Lord Spencer is to return as Premier.
In his next remaining letter, dated May 1836, Merivale writes:—
To-day I dine with Hallam, much renowned for Greek, for the purpose of meeting
Wordsworth the poet (not the
master), and Benson of the Temple. I
wish you were a fifth. To-morrow I ordain (as we say in
the West) to go and see Ion, 1 though I
cannot by any possibility fancy Macready
as the youthful devotee and enthusiast. Surely none but a woman can both act
and look the character. Madame Malibran
should have it.
As to public affairs, it requires no great share of political
sapience to pronounce that something is rotten in the state of Denmark. The action is, it seems, proceeding and expected to
proceed, and even Lord John thinks discretion the better
part of valour, and refuses to march through Coventry with the Irish beggars in
their way to rebellion. Degraded indeed we are if suck a domination as we have
lived under (at least nominally) for the last twelvemonth can endure for
another similar period.
The bon-mot ascribed to Lord
M. in last Sunday’s ‘John Bull’ strikes me as irresistibly
funny—that, being asked how he liked his present Chancellor, as compared with Brougham, he answered, ‘Much like a man who has discarded
a capricious mistress, to marry his housekeeper.’
I had a batch of my neighbour
Barnwell’s music last evening, and longed for
you to enjoy it with me.
1 By Serjeant Talfourd.
In July of this year Dr. Butler,
who for thirty-eight years had been head-master of Shrewsbury, was promoted to the see of
Lichfield, a promotion which caused a vacancy in the archdeaconry of Derby, which had been
held by Dr. Butler, conjointly with the head-mastership, for several
years. The vacant archdeaconry was immediately offered to the Vicar of Bakewell by the
Premier, Lord Melbourne, who expressed his concern that
in point of emolument it was not better worth the Vicar’s acceptance. At the same
time Dr. Butler wrote to assure his old friend of his sense of the
benefit which the appointment would confer upon the clergy of the archdeaconry.
You have too much good sense (he adds) to attack, or provoke hostility
from, a party with whom neither you nor I agree. You have learning and character, and,
whatever may be your own diffidence on the subject, are qualified for the office in
every way. We shall have frequent communication, and shall proceed most harmoniously
and cordially together for the good of the archdeaconry; so write your thanks to
Lord Melbourne, without more ado.
My first act this year will be to inhibit you from visiting.
This friendly inhibition was soon either withdrawn
or disregarded, for a very short interval elapsed before Hodgson entered with accustomed energy into the duties of his new office,
and there was hardly a church or parish in the district entrusted to his supervision which
did not experience some advantage from the combined zeal and tact of his ministrations.
Indefatigable in his visitations, forcible but temperate in his charges, he conferred a
lasting benefit upon all the ecclesiastical institutions of the neighbourhood with which
his name had so long been associated. There are those, even in the present day, who speak
with warm interest and fond regret of the beneficial influence exercised throughout this
portion of the Diocese of Lichfield by the kindly sympathies and judicious earnestness of
Archdeacon Hodgson.
CHAPTER XXI. LETTERS OF MERIVALE ON RELIGIOUS SUBJECTS—FROM
BUTLER AND FROM MRS. LEIGH—MARRIAGE
WITH MISS DENMAN—HONEYMOON AT HARDWICKE—RECTORY OF
EDENSOR—LETTERS FROM THE DUKE OF RUTLAND, LORD
DENMAN, THE DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE, AND
MERIVALE—APPOINTMENT TO THE PROVOSTSHIP OF ETON—LETTER
FROM LORD WELLESLEY. 1837-40.
During the later years of his incumbency at Bakewell, Hodgson’s solitary leisure hours were constantly
cheered and enlivened by cordial correspondence with his old and faithful friends, of whom
Merivale, in particular, continued to write very
frequently upon religious and political subjects. On the deeply interesting question of the
‘Intermediate state of departed spirits,’ he writes:—
I haveBurnet, and will read him, in order
that we may compare notes; but I think it is since I
wrote to you that I read (or finished reading) Caleb Fleming, as also a MS. essay of my grandfather’s on the same subject, and a
sermon of Balguy’s to which he refers; and the
result of my meditations has been strongly to aid my inclinations in favour of
the affirmative, though not altogether to remove my difficulties—the
chief of which relates to the condition of ‘the wicked.’ Are they to be subject to a double
sentence, without the intermediate means of obtaining remission? Or are we to
infer Purgatory? If the latter be admitted, then does it not follow, as at
least extremely probable, that the term
αίώνιον, referred to
punishment, means the age intervening between death and
final judgment, and does not exclude final repentance and restoration?—a
high and mysterious question, but one on which I think it quite allowable to
speculate, provided it be done with humility and
caution, as it is certainly not among those revealed
doctrines which are so plain as to forbid dispute. Clarke does not at all satisfy me when he says (slurring over
mine and my grandfather’s difficulty), ‘In that state (the
intermediate) the righteous cannot but be very happy, through the certain
expectation of the crown of righteousness which they know the Lord, the Righteous
Judge, shall give them at the last day; and the wicked, on the contrary,
cannot but be made very miserable by a certain fearful looking for of
judgment and fiery indignation, though the irreversible sentence shall not
be actually executed upon them before the great day.’ This, I
say, exceeds my comprehension, unless it be accompanied by the admission of a
continued state of probation and the possibility of a future mitigation or
reversal of the sentence which it supposes to have been pronounced. To sum up
my present impressions on this point, they are these—many passages of
Scripture seem to me wholly inconsistent with the sleep of the soul, especially
the parable of Dives and Lazarus, the
promise to the Penitent Thief, and the article of Christ’s three
days’ sojourn in the region of Departed Spirits.
But then comes the difficulty, already adverted to, of suffering a double
sentence—the last, simply confirmatory of the first; and which (as it
seems to me) can only be got over by the hypothesis of a locus penitentiæ being still reserved for the wicked, between death and the
resurrection—in other words, a state of purgatory—which may be
admitted without implying the corollary, viz. the danger of a falling off for
the good, who may be believed to exist (intermediately)
in the certain expectation of ultimate blessedness,
implying an exalted, although not perfect, state of present felicity; and this
would seem a way of reconciling the expressions of ‘many called and few
chosen,’ &c., without recourse either to a Calvinistic
interpretation, or to any attempts at evading it—the few being mercy
comparative, and applying to those only whose ultimate blessedness is fixed and
determined from the hour of their death. Again, without some such
qualification, what you say of the happiness Dr misery of the departed being
liable to be largely affected by the hope or dread of their respective increase is hard to be
understood—since, if their doom is fixed and irrevocable, there can be no
room for either hope or dread
remaining.
I add the following passage from that odd book, the
‘Doctor,’
which (I believe) nobody now doubts to be Southey’s, as connected (at least in my mind) with the
same most interesting subject. ‘It may safely be affirmed that
generous minds, when they have once known each other, can never be
alienated, so long as both retain the characteristics which brought them
into union. No distance of place, or lapse of time, can lessen the
friendship of those who are thus thoroughly persuaded of each other’s
worth. There are even some broken attachments in friendship, as well as in
love, which nothing can destroy; and it sometimes happens that we are not
conscious of their strength till after the disruption.’ And
again, ‘Who can bestow a thought upon the pantomime of politics, when
his mind is fixed upon the tragedy of human life?’ I need hardly
say to what objects1 my own mind is turned by
reflecting on these passages, which are to me consolatory in the extreme.
I shall be most happy to receive your primary
‘charge,’ and depend on your promise of sending it me as soon as I
reach London. I want also to know somewhat more particularly what you mean by
your projected work on Prophecy, of which you have given me sundry obscure
intimations. I cannot tell you how much it would rejoice me to possess a
treatise on such a subject from one whom I consider, not only so fully
competent but, so exactly adapted to the task as yourself. Do you coincide with
Coleridge when he says that the old
dragon who, with his tail, drew down the third part of the stars of heaven and
cast them to the earth, is merely typical of the Neronian persecutions, and the
apostacy through fear occasioned by them in a
1Merivale had lost several children.
large number of converts? This is to strip it of the
prophetic character altogether and make it a mere piece of enigmatical writing.
From whom does he borrow this mode of explaining it? And query if it is much
more apposite to O’Connell and the
Whig-Radical ministry? Coleridge, by the bye, is no
believer in the personality of Satan. To disprove it he
refers to Amos iii. 6, and Isaiah xlv. 7, that God is Himself the sole creator of evil. And
adds, ‘This is the deep mystery of the abyss of God.’ And
again, as to possessions, he says, ‘Who shall dare determine what
spiritual influences may not arise out of the collective evil wills of
wicked men? But this is altogether different from making spirits to be
devils, and devils self-conscious individuals.’
I am much pleased with another remark of Coleridge’s, in a note on a passage in
‘Robinson
Crusoe,’ who is made to say, ‘I must confess my religious
thankfulness to God’s providence began to abate upon discovering that
all this was nothing but common, though I ought to have been as thankful
for so strange and unforeseen a Providence, as if it had been
miraculous.’ On which C. observes, ‘To make men feel the
truth of this is one characteristic object of the miracles worked by
Moses. In them the Providence is miraculous, the miracles
Providential.’ A sufficient answer, I think, for Milman to have made to the cavillers at his
‘Jewish
History,’ who pretended that it convicted him of scepticism by the
attempt to attribute them to natural causes.
Towards the end of the week I am in hopes of having the
great enjoyment of welcoming Denman at
Barton Place,1 where he once before visited me,
thirty-four years ago. ‘Quantum mutatus!’ but in
station only—not in mind, or heart, or even in fresh and youthful
spirit—and, I think, in these respects, the same may in great measure be
said of both of us. Oh, how I wish you could make a third at this our reunion!
In the following year Merivale
recurs to his previously expressed desire that Bakewell should be exchanged for a London
incumbency.
I wish on many accounts that you were turning your face London-ward,
in which case you must make our house your headquarters, that we may jointly settle
your plan of operations at our leisure. I should indeed rejoice, my dear old friend,
and so would my wife, at your pronouncing this feasible. Do write and say that it is so.
1Merivale’s Devonshire home.
Such an exhibition of pictures as never has yet been produced to
greet the opening of the National Gallery—at least so I am told by private
viewers. Then a battle of spurs by a young Flemish artist—age
twenty-three—worthy of the best age of the school of Antwerp. And then, also, a
Westminster election, with that preux chevalier, Sir Francis Burdett, at the head of the
Conservatives! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Little did I dream of such a revolution when,
thirty-five years ago, I went about canvassing for him as the champion for Middlesex,
and was taken for Tom Sheridan by an old
Homerton Dissenter. What a mad world, my masters! I have no time now for a chapter on
politics or any other subject, only that I cordially concur in your archdeaconry views
of the Church-rate question, and regret the stupidity of those who cannot discern that
it is merely in the light of an attack on the Church itself that it deserves a
moment’s consideration. But if persisted in, avowedly to satisfy the Dissenters,
it is the avowal, and not the measure, that calls for opposition.
In a later letter, referring again to Sir F.
Burdett’s change of politics, Merivale writes:—
I find myself scarce yet recovered from the dream, as it really seems to be, of
so strange a metamorphosis; nevertheless, Sir F.
B. of 1837 is not so inconsistent with Sir F. B. of
1810 as Sir F. B. of 1810 was inconsistent with himself. Ever one
half Tory, the other half Radical—now Tory and nothing else. But, as a test of
the turn of the tide, the victory is not to be appreciated; and, as usual, our poor old
friends, the Whigs, have only to thank themselves for whatever of mortification or
embarrassment the event has caused them. What profligate madness to harness themselves
to the coachmaker’s chariot!
The next letter, from the Bishop of Lichfield (Butler), gives a vivid and amusing description of the
dangers which are occasionally involved in the due discharge of episcopal duties:—
Calwich Abbey: July 16, 1837.
My dear friend,—All well. Awful thunderstorm yesterday
burst over us while laying the foundation-stone of Middleton church—flash
and crash together—ʹάμʹ
ʹέπος ʹάμʹ
ʹέργον—wet to the
præcordia in an instant—peppered with hail. Hundredth Psalm well
sung; thunder playing bass most gloriously; prayer offered by the Bishop; then,
trowel in hand, he began to spread the mortar, when all at once down came the scaffold with himself and friends, a height of about 12
feet, among lapides quadratos and cæmenta. Nobody hurt
on the scaffold, two under it not materially so. Picked up, covered with mud
and glory; got back; changed dress; arrived at Calwich to dinner none the worse
for fall or wetting. Mr. Harward will send a plain account
to the ‘Derby Mercury,’ lest somebody else should send an
ornamental one. The scaffold was not struck with lightning. None of the party
on it were killed, and brought to life again by swallowing a hundred boxes of
Morison’s pills. Of the spectators, not more
than every third man had his bones broken, and they were set immediately by the
new patent cement for china.
Truly yours, S. L.
In her next letter Mrs. Leigh
describes a party at the house of a lady whom Dickens subsequently immortalised in the character of Mrs. Leo Hunter.
On Saturday, I was persuaded to accompany a friend to dine
ten miles out of town. Of course I became very unwell with a cold, and only the
fear of disappointing my friend and upsetting her arrange-ments induced me to exert myself sufficiently
to go. To crown all, it was to a Lion
and Lioness Hunter’s
mansion—Shirley Park; great friends of Miss
Jane Porter (the authoress); and our object was to see her. Imagine an immense long room full when we arrived: the American Minister and his wife; and
somebody else and his wife, attaché of this embassy; Mr.
Wilkinson, a renowned traveller in Egypt and thereabouts, and a
particular friend of Lord King; Mr. and
Mrs. Haynes Bayley; a Pole who has
written several works in English, and is celebrated in his way. This was the
cream of the party; and I was to be gazed at as the
sister of Lord Byron! I wished so you could
have heard all the tributes of every sort to his memory, at which it was
impossible not to be gratified. Mr. Wilkinson is a very
agreeable and pleasing young man. Asked me if I had lately seen Lady King. I said, ‘No, I am very sorry to say, not for a long time,’ except at
the Exhibition, where I went twice to look at her
picture; and then we went on upon the picture, and I inquired after the health
of the original, and if he had seen the baby; and he praised Lord
K. very much; and I said it had pleased me very much to hear of
her marriage with one so highly spoken of by everybody.
We never approached the subject of the mother. This is the second running
against of such intimates that I have lately had. I met the other evening at a
very tiny party at Mde. de
Montalembert’s, Mrs.
Somerville, the scientific Mrs. S., the intimate friend of
Ada, to whom Mde. de M. presented
me, and said, ‘You know, Mrs. L., that your niece
has called her son Byron?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. S., ‘Byron King;’ and I exclaimed,
‘I am very glad to hear that!’ and asked after her health and the
child, and again we steered clear of Milady
B.
Mrs. Leigh’s next letter, together with a
touching allusion to the sudden death of her half-brother, the Duke of Leeds, contained matter of a more cheerful character.
Thank God (she writes) for the assurance that you are happy! you, who
so well deserve happiness. May it be as lasting and unmingled as this world can render
it!
The wish so kindly uttered was fulfilled to the letter. The happiness
which was greeted so warmly by the sister of his illustrious and unfortunate friend, was
occasioned by the prospect of marriage with the second daughter of another friend, as highly valued,
Lord Denman, now Chief Justice of England. The
delicacy of Lady Denman’s health, and the
early marriage of her elder daughter, had brought Miss
Elizabeth Denman into very close companionship with her father during some
of the most interesting periods of his life—a companionship which no one could enjoy
without advantage; while her absolute unselfishness, her tender devotion to her family, and
the natural refinement of her disposition could not fail to excite the admiration and
regard of all who had the privilege of her acquaintance.
The marriage, which took place on May 3, 1838, from Lord Denman’s house in Portland Place, was solemnised
by the Rev. Richard Vevers, at Trinity Church,
Marylebone; and the honeymoon was spent at one of the most beautiful and retired of the
Duke of Devonshire’s houses, Hardwicke Hall,
near Chesterfield, whither, ten days later, Merivale
despatched the following cordial effusion:—
My dear Hodgson,—I should indeed be doing the greatest injustice to
my feelings, both as they regard yourself and your fair bride, if I delayed a
moment to acknowledge the very welcome epistle which I received too late for
the post on Saturday, dated from Hardwicke Hall. I had
before (though under strict injunctions of secrecy) heard that place named as
your destination during the first days of your happiness, and, from the many
descriptions I had heard or read of it, was picturing to myself the enjoyment
which you could not fail both to derive from a location
(O spirits of Harriet Martineau and
James Jefferson Whitlee!) so full of picturesque,
romantic, historical, and imaginative interest. . . . I only fear that in spite
of the influence of local emotions, Queen Bess will have altogether supplanted
Queen Mary,1 as the object of your
devotions; and I beg you to assure her first-named majesty that I am myself far
too good an Englishman not to give in my adhesion to her superior claim upon
our affections and homage, at least in the person of her present
representative.
The confession you have made of your love for ‘Whistlecraft’2 transports me beyond all bounds of moderation, so
completely justifying, as it does, my presentiment that you would ‘be all
the better for something’ to laugh at on your journey. I told your
friend, Poet Rogers, that same day, at
the
1Hodgson, in his youth, had been engaged on a poem, of
which the heroine was Mary Queen of Scots, an occupation to which
Byron alludes in a letter of
invitation to Newstead. Vide
supra, vol. i. p. 107. 2 By
Hookham Frere.
breakfast, of the present I had made you, and of the indignation you expressed
at my supposing it possible that you might want, or even admit of, diversion on
such an occasion, at the same time that you gravely pocketed the affront I
offered. His dry, bachelor-like remark was, not only that I had done quite
right, but that he hoped you had taken care, each of you, to provide a
travelling library, as he did not see how you were otherwise to get through it.
There’s an epithalamium for you, worthy of ‘Jaqueline’ or the ‘Pleasures of Memory.’
When you have time to read any other books than ‘Whistlecraft,’ and
such others as the Duke’s judgment
may have selected for your entertainment at Hardwicke, I think you will be much
interested in the ‘Life
of Wilberforce.’ I have felt great delight in observing, as I
have gone on with it, in how many points, especially political and
politico-religious, I in fact coincided with him, even while I fancied myself
at the furthest distance from him. His was indeed a proud position when the
leading men of both parties were beseeching his interference to extricate the
country from the extreme embarrassment occasioned by the proceedings against
the Queen; and his biographers well remark upon it as ‘not a little curious’ that
the strongest of these supplications came from a man (Lord J. Russell) whose maxim it was that ‘to abandon
party is to forfeit all political importance.’ Very much such a position
as his was then, I hold to be my good friend Sir
Thomas Acland’snow; and I am
accordingly not a little curious to know the result of
his motion this evening for rescinding the Resolutions of the House of Commons
on “which the present Ministry came into office; not that I consider it
as a party question, in which light I feel confident that
Acland himself would not have entertained it, but that
I am convinced of its having been the falsest and most pernicious move ever
made by a party for the attainment of power, and the retractation of which is,
in my apprehension, indispensable towards the settlement of the great Irish
question on any reasonable basis. And now farewell for the present! I will
write to you again when you are at Middleton.1 My
wife joins me in every feeling that
is most warm and affectionate towards both yourself and your sposa, and
I am, my dear H., ever
yours, J. H. M.
1 Stoney Middleton, near Bakewell, the seat of Lord Denman.
Shortly before his marriage Hodgson had been presented by the Duke of
Devonshire to the small donative living of Edensor, in Chatsworth Park,
which, at the Duke’s particular request, he held in conjunction with Bakewell, the
distance between the two parishes being less than three miles. On hearing of his intended
resignation of Bakewell, the Duke of Rutland
wrote:—
I thank you very truly for the able, eloquent, and interesting charge
to the clergy in this archdeaconry, which you have had the kindness to send me, and I
rejoice at the favourable statement you are able to give me of the proceedings for the
past year, and of the present funds of the High Peak Society for the Propagation of
Christian Knowledge. It is most satisfactory evidence of the feelings of this district
towards our orthodox church. I am much gratified by your observations on the subject of
your removal from Bakewell. If I had any instrumentality in procuring for the
inhabitants of Bakewell the benefits of your long incumbency, I consider that in such
instrumentality I have been even more honoured than honouring.
In acknowledging the above-mentioned charge, Lord Denman writes:—
My dear Archdeacon,—Many thanks for your charge, which I read
last night with great pleasure, and sincere admiration of its charitable and liberal
principles; both epithets advisedly used, as being, in my opinion, peculiarly
characteristic of Christianity itself.
My argument and Holt’s judgments I hope to
send in a day or two; meantime, if you feel an interest in the subject, there is a
paper of Brougham’s, discussing it in the
last ‘Edinburgh,’ to which,
for reasons obvious in the perusal, I ought not to call your attention.
On October 1st of this year (1838), the Duke of
Devonshire writes from Geneva:—
My dear sir,—Excuse the splendour of my paper;1 it is like the stall of a cathedral, of which I
selfishly do not wish to see you in possession. I received your letter to-day,
with several others, stating that Paxton
would be the bearer of them, but he has not made his appearance, and if he does
not make haste this town may be in a state of siege, and I on the other side of
the Alps. I am so pleased at your having inhabited Calton Lees.2 What a pretty
1 The paper had a gilt edging in an
ecclesiastical pattern.
2 A hamlet in Chatsworth Park, in which
Hodgson had taken refuge
during the restoration of the rectory-house at Edensor.
village!—after all the beauties of Switzerland the same impression of it
remains. I have been much more delighted with my tour than I expected; I had
formed quite a different idea of the Swiss mountains, and did not suppose them
to have so much wood and verdure and richness. The Lake of Thun is my favourite
place. I had the drawback of not meeting the Burlingtons,
who were delayed at Baden by the illness of their boy. He is now recovered, and
we shall meet next week, on the Simplon or at Milan. I have made up my mind to
pass the winter in Italy, with true regrets for Chatsworth; my time is passed
in an idle, useless manner. My health will, I think, be improved by it, and I
have got into very early habits, really getting up at daybreak. My
acquaintances here are very few: Mr.
Decandolle, the botanist, and M.
Merle d’Aubigné, who has written a very clever
history of the Reformation, are among them; the English and French travellers
have hurried away, and troops are said to have left Lyons, all for a very
foolish business about a very foolish fellow, the young Louis Buonaparte,1 who
must be perfectly happy at being made of so much importance. Pray give my best
remembrances to Mrs. Arkwright, when
1Napoleon
III.
you see “her (I hope she is well), and believe me,
messages to your wife being always included, ever most truly and faithfully
yours,
Devonshire.
I am ashamed of sending so dull a letter. Pray write to
me; tell me village news. I have been grieved by the death of Lady Elizabeth Harcourt, at
Milan,—four days’ illness from eating an ice after a ball.
Another death, of the Duchess de
Broglie, daughter of Mme. de
Staël, has caused great affliction, and Lady Granville particularly laments her. She
was a most pious, excellent woman. Both these ladies had daughters near
their confinement, travelling in the south—Lady Norreys and Mme.
d’Oponville. Just as my letter was going Mr. Paxton has arrived.
The Duke’s next letter is dated
from Malta, April 6, 1839:—
My dear sir,—Your letter of February 11 was here when
I returned from the East; but in the middle of last month I got the news1 which it announces. If you had seen me at Tophana
under shelter of the projecting roof of a mosque—shelter from snow
1 The birth of a daughter.
—dictating
to one of the regular letter-writers a congratulation, which he penned in
Turkish! I thought he understood me very well, and that, though some Oriental
flowers’ of language were introduced, he had truly expressed the pleasure
I felt at Mrs. Hodgson’s safety
and your little girl’s; but, on returning home, my dragoman condemned the
letter, declared it an imposition, and more about a sister than a daughter; and
I unwillingly suppressed it. How happy you must be, and how fortunate it is
that both the objects of your care are so well!
Your account of Edensor is most satisfactory. I reproach
myself with great selfishness in keeping Paxton1 away so long, but he was so
useful to me that I could not do without him. When returned to Italy I shall
make him go home without me, for he must really be wanted. My plans will depend
on the Carlisles and Burlingtons,
both of whom I expect to find at Naples.
You cannot imagine the delight of Athens. The interior of
the excavations is beyond everything; there were 200 houses and several
churches
1Sir Joseph
Paxton, originally chosen by the Duke from a row of
village lads brought before him as candidates for a place in the
gardens at Chatsworth; afterwards the architect of the great
conservatories on the model of which the Crystal Palace was built.
on the Acropolis. The last war with the Turks entirely
demolished these, and now, upon the removal of their remains, treasures of
antiquity daily come out. An entire small temple was found in one of the clumsy
Turkish bastions; it was one well known by description, but supposed to be
quite demolished—the temple of Victory, without wings—but it has
been cleared and put together, and is as fresh as in the days of Pericles. The
magnificent Propylæa have also been released from the walls that concealed
them, and form a building more striking than the Parthenon itself. The same
Neapolitan artist who sketched for me in Sicily has been with me now, and I
think him very much improved; and his collection will be most valuable to me as
souvenirs of a happy time, and I should like to show them to you. Adieu.
Ever most faithfully yours, Devonshire.
During the years 1838-9 Hodgson’s leisure was principally devoted to the study of Hebrew and
to theological researches and discussions, into the spirit of which his friend Merivale warmly entered, both in conversation and in
several letters, in one of which no less a subject is considered than that universally interesting and
absorbing question which has puzzled philosophers and theologians from the earliest ages to
the present day: ‘Unde malum?’
Reading the other day (writes Merivale) Brougham’s essay on
the ‘Origin of Evil,’ in his late volumes of
illustrations of Paley, I was
tempted to set down the following as a summary of my own views respecting it. Tell me
if you think the reasoning tolerably perspicuous and substantially tenable.
The power of the Almighty Himself is necessarily limited, because God
can do nothing which involves a positive contradiction. Thus God cannot create an
uncreated being. He cannot create Himself, nor can He create a being possessing
attributes which belong to none but an uncreated being. He cannot create a being having
His own peculiar and incommunicable attributes, a being perfectly
wise, perfectly good, perfectly happy; a being whose wisdom, goodness, and
happiness are self-originated, and self-existent. He may indeed create a being having a capacity for perfect goodness, wisdom, and happiness,
capable (i.e.) of attaining them through some certain process
the conditions of which are beyond our knowledge or conceptions, though we are thus far
informed by experience that the existence
of evil forms an essential part of those conditions. Thus we know that human wisdom and
goodness necessarily imply the existence of their contraries. In like manner human
happiness is unattainable but through the intervention of evil, nor could it by any
possibility have been otherwise. Yet all this is compatible with the belief of a future
state in which evil shall no longer exist, but the divine attributes be enjoyed by man
in the higher degree to which human nature is capable of them, through the means of
that moral agent called evil, which was at first introduced for that especial purpose,
though, when once the end is attained, it will have ceased to exist. The highest
exertion of which human virtue is capable consists in the reduction of the total amount
of human misery. What would it be if there were no misery? if evil had no
existence—at least in this present state of trial and discipline? Death is an evil to the sufferer only so
far as he is more or less qualified for a state of happiness. In all other respects,
the evil, to him, consists in the apprehension only. To surviving friends it is an
evil, doubtless, of the first magnitude; but, at the same time, it is an evil, of all
others, best calculated to work our moral improvement. In this
sense the sufferings and death of infants are evils of the same nature, and calculated to answer the
same wise and benevolent purposes; and as to the unconscious sufferers themselves, we
may well imagine that abundant compensation is provided, though probably not of the
same nature as that which is awarded to moral agents—passive, not active, still
less intellectual fruition. Again, in our total ignorance of superhuman or angelic
nature I cannot admit the doctrine of the existence of such beings to contain any
argument against the supposed necessity of evil as a means of
the greatest attainable good. How can we take on ourselves to pronounce that the virtue
and happiness of angelic natures (no less than of human) may not be made dependent on
the conflict of evil? considered therefore, both as to them and ourselves, as the instrument of perfection?
Early in the following year (1840) a piece of ecclesiastical preferment
fell to the lot of the Archdeacon of Derby, which he would perhaps have chosen before all
others, and for which he was fitted in an eminent degree. For several years he had been a
candidate for a Fellowship at Eton; but his claims, not having been of late brought
prominently before the Eton world, had been passed over in favour of others more
immediately connected with the school. That he was not forgotten at
Eton, and that his character and attainments were duly-appreciated there, is proved by the
fact that, in 1838, the then Provost, Dr. Goodall,
wrote him an elaborate apology for voting against him at a recent election, assigning as
his only reason the desire of co-operating with his colleagues, the Fellows, who were
unanimously predisposed towards one of the Assistant-masters. In the same year the failing
health of Dr. Goodall gave rise to speculations as to his probable
successor, and Hodgson’s high qualifications
for the office were duly recognised by the Prime Minister, Lord
Melbourne. But, having always entertained the opinion that the long service
as Head-master of his old tutor, Keate, constituted
a paramount claim to the office of Provost, Hodgson determined not to
oppose him—a determination which he communicated to Lord
Melbourne; and in a letter to Harry
Drury, who had encouraged him to canvass the next vacancy, he writes,
‘As to the great office at Eton, there is no human being who deserves it but
Keate, and Palmam qui meruit ferat.’ This generous expression of
feeling quite won the heart of the great Head-master, whose desire for the Provostship
decreased with increasing years; and when, in March 1840, Dr. Goodall
died, Keate cordially approved of his old pupil’s nomination by
the Crown.
By the Statutes of Eton College it was essential that the Provost should
have attained the degree of either Bachelor or Doctor of Divinity, and it was required that
the election should take place without delay. Hodgson, at the time of his nomination, was only M. A., and the College
proceeded to elect his old friend and former protégé,
John Lonsdale. Owing to his absence at the
funeral of a friend in the country, Lonsdale did not receive notice of
his election until some days later, and, as soon as he heard the name of the Crown nominee,
he instantly resolved to refuse the proffered honour. Having obtained the necessary degree
by Royal mandate on April 10, Hodgson was duly elected by the College
on May 5, 1840, and was installed at the ensuing election.
It was not without a feeling of deep regret that he contemplated the
prospect of his departure from the scene of his long-continued labours—a feeling
which was fully reciprocated by all classes in the neighbourhood. The Dukes of Devonshire and Rutland
wrote as follows:—
House of Lords: April 6, 1840.
Very mixed feelings press upon me when I take up my pen
to tell you that I have this moment learnt your appointment to be Provost of
Eton. Lord Melbourne’s wish and intention to do
this were told me as long ago as on that evening when you met him at Stafford
House.
It would be selfish and wrong of me to think of anything but
the honourable distinction and credit of this appointment to you personally,
and of its advantages to your family. Grieved I shall be to lose you, and I
know that you will also feel regret. Give my love to Mrs. Hodgson, and tell her that I never saw
greater pleasure in a countenance than in Lord
Denman’s just now, when I told him of the event.
God bless you, my dear sir! Ever most truly yours, Devonshire.
A few months later the Duke
wrote:—
It was necessary to get up all recollections of the
prosperity and welfare that await you at Eton, not to feel very melancholy when
I went to Edensor yesterday.
Belvoir Castle: April 26, 1840.
My dear sir,—No friend of yours can more rejoice in
your well-deserved promotion to the Provostship of Eton than I do, and I cannot
help giving this
expression to my feelings. I am well aware of the general regret which will be
experienced in the neighbourhood—where you have so long resided, and have
been so much beloved—at your departure; but that regret must give way to
a sensation of joy at one who is so eminently qualified for an important
position, such as is the Provostship, being placed in it. I sincerely hope that
Mrs. Hodgson and your daughter are
well.
Believe me, my dear sir, Yours very faithfully, Rutland.
The Bishop of Lichfield (Bowstead), who had recently been appointed to the see on the demise of
Hodgson’s excellent and warm-hearted
friend, Bishop Butler,1
wrote his congratulations, and added:—
I cannot but take this opportunity of expressing my unfeigned thanks
for the kind, ready, and frank manner in which you communicated with me on subjects
connected with your archdeaconry, and also my regret at the loss which the diocese will
sustain by your removal from us, especially at the present moment.
1Bishop Bowstead
lived only two and a half years after his appointment, and was succeeded by Bishop Lonsdale.
Old Etonians were not slow to perceive the advantages which were likely
to accrue to Eton from Hodgson’s appointment.
Archdeacon Bayley writes on May 13, 1840:—
At the earliest moment I send to wish all possible health
and happiness in your new character of Provost of Eton. It is an arduous thing
to succeed such a man as Goodall in such
a situation. Hallam calls him the
Incarnation of Eton. But even in him there was a ‘hoc defuit
unum,’ which you, I do believe and hope, may be as willing
as you are able to supply. I mean the introduction of various improvements in
the school, more especially in the discipline and comforts of the College boys.
You will find a willing and able auxiliary, I think, in the Head-master.
Lord Wellesley wrote in still more complimentary
terms:—
Kingston House: July 16, 1840.
Sir,—My highly respected and warmly beloved friend,
your accomplished predecessor, conferred on me the distinguished honour of
desiring to place my bust in the library of Eton College. This request might
have been ascribed to an impulse of long (upwards of sixty years) private
friendship, but it was confirmed by the vote of the College. Under these
circumstances I should have deemed myself authorised to present my bust to the
College without any previous proceeding; but I was anxious to pay every mark of
respect and attention to you; and also, I confess, desirous that this high
honour should have the additional sanction of your justly established
reputation as an accomplished scholar, and as a bright example of virtue,
learning and religion. Accordingly, I sent my private secretary, Mr. Alfred Montgomery, to Eton to ascertain
your sentiments, and he has brought me a report so encouraging, and in every
way so grateful to all my feelings, that I have no hesitation now in sending
the bust to be deposited in the place of its honourable destination. No honour
is so valuable in my estimation, nor so deeply touches my heart, as a mark of
the esteem and affection of the beloved seat of my early education; which I
loved when a child, and in the prime of youth, and when under the discipline of
preceptors, who, towards me, discharged all the duties of loving parents; and
which I have ever since venerated as the source of all the honour by which my
public life has been distinguished.
It is a great satisfaction to me to see the affairs of Eton
College entrusted to hands so well qualified to administer them, with that
benefit to the Empire which it has so long derived from this noble Institution;
the Parent of so many illustrious Statesmen and Heroes. My earnest hope and
prayer is that your labours in your high station may prove successful, and
that, with the able assistance which surrounds you, you may be enabled to
satisfy the public expectations formed upon the solid grounds of your long and
firmly established character.
I have the honour to be, with the highest respect and
esteem, sir,
Your faithful and obedient servant, Wellesley.
I return you many thanks for your kindness in granting a
holiday to the boys at my request.
W.
The expectations thus early formed were speedily realised. The
newly-elected Provost, though now in his sixtieth year, was full of energy and spirit, and
was delighted at the opportunity which his appointment offered of carrying into effect his
long-cherished wish of seeing the collegers in a
position more in accordance with the Founder’s evident intentions. As the carriage,
which conveyed him from Derbyshire, passed on the third evening of its journey through the
Eton playing-fields into Weston’s yard, and the college buildings came into sight,
the Provost exclaimed, with characteristic earnestness, ‘Please God I will do
something for those poor boys!’ As soon as the business and festivities of election
were over a scheme was formed for the erection of new buildings on the site of the old
stables, of the Provost and Fellows, a committee was appointed, and subscriptions solicited
from old Etonians towards a building fund. Various other improvements were set on foot,
which are duly recorded by the latest and most explicit historian of Eton, Mr. Maxwell Lyte, and which will be mentioned in the
ensuing pages, in the order of their occurrence.
Various must have been the emotions with which the Provost entered his
new home. The recollections of boyhood must have mingled strangely with the later memories
of early manhood and of middle age, and both must have given way to sensations of gratitude
and of hope at the prospect of an old age not less useful than honourable.
CHAPTER XXII. REFORMS AT ETON—VISIT TO BRIGHTON—DEATH OF
DRURY—LETTER FROM MRS. ROBERT ARKWRIGHT
AND HENRY HALLAM—VISIT OF ROGERS TO
ETON—BYRON’S STATUE—HIS OPINIONS ON
SCULPTURE—LETTER FROM MRS. LEIGH—MORE REFORMS AT
ETON—RESTORATION OF THE COLLEGIATE CHURCH—ABOLITION OF ‘MONTEM.’ 1840-47.
The high-minded and accomplished Head-master of Eton, Dr. Hawtrey, fully entered into the spirit of the
Provost’s plans for improvement, and responded to his appeal for assistance in the
following cordial letter:—
My dear Provost,—I am delighted to find that in almost every
point which your letter touches upon we entirely agree. In many I have already
anticipated your views, in some I have been restrained as yet from doing so, only by
the veto of superior authority.
Whatever be done I know we have the same object, and I have no doubt of our discussing
these interesting matters in a spirit which will lead to co-operative reform. Let me
repeat that I am delighted to see you among us, and the more so, if possible, for the
letter which I have just read.
The first result of this alliance was the introduction of the teaching of
modern languages, and the acceptance of Prince
Albert’s offer of annual prizes for French, German, and Italian. The
Provost secured the presence of Dr. Praetorius,1 a distinguished German scholar, at the first examinations, and
Professor Smythe wrote with a view to the
institution of similar examinations and prizes at Cambridge.
The Marquis Wellesley’s example
in sending his bust to the college was followed, at the suggestion of the Provost, by the
Duke of Wellington and several other eminent
Etonians, whose interest in the school was increased by the impetus now given to
enlightened education, as well as to more material progress. The Eton dinner this year
(1840) commemorated the 400th anniversary of the foundation, and was very largely attended,
the chair being occupied by Lord Denman in place of the Marquis
1 Librarian at Windsor Castle.
Wellesley, who was prevented by illness from attending. The triennial
festival of ‘montem’ was celebrated with the usual ceremonies, in which the
Queen and Prince took part, and were entertained at the lodge by the Provost and
Mrs. Hodgson.
Among the manifold avocations and distractions of the new office,
literary tastes were not forgotten, nor was private correspondence neglected. In April 1841
appeared the ‘Arundines Cami,’ a
collection of translations from English Poems into Greek and Latin verse, the grave and gay
thrown lightly together, to which copious contributions were made by the Provost of Eton,
who had also a large share in the selection and arrangement. Among the other contributors
were Lord Lyttelton, Dr.
Hawtrey, Dr. Kennedy, John Herman Merivale, Henry
Hallam, and Dr. Donaldson, and the
editor was the Rev. Henry (afterwards Archdeacon) Drury, eldest son of the ‘Harry
Drury’ so often mentioned in this book, and whose death in March of
this year was deeply lamented by his old friend and fellow-collegian, the Provost, and by
many other friends to whom his hearty and kindly nature had long endeared him. Hodgson visited him at Harrow more than once during his
last illness and administered the Sacrament to him just before his death in the presence of
the Head-master,
Dr. Wordsworth, now Bishop of Lincoln.
In the spring of this year the Duke of
Devonshire placed at the Provost’s disposal his house at Kemp Town,
Brighton, of which he writes:—
I am in such good humour with my house at Kemp Town, because it suits
you and Mrs. Hodgson, and does your health good.
The Duke adds with reference to Hodgson’s propensity for collecting pebbles on the sea-shore:—
You would go wild if you could see the pebbles polished which have
coincidently arrived with your letter, picked up by me last summer near Havre. Now do call
Wm. Baker.1 William, pray show the Dr.2 the polished pebble with a hole in it that is on one of the china
trays in the library. That I picked up at Dieppe. The paintings are by
Vigoreux, a Frenchman, and represent the presents made by the
French King at the court of Japan. They are medallions of Japanese towns and princes. The
presents were paintings mythological. I am intoxicated with the beauty of the country in
spring, the
1 His servant.
2 The Duke always
called the Provost Dr. Hodgson, though, as
has been seen, he was B.D.
woods enamelled with flowers. White and his wife
so happy in a beautiful cottage, and under the same roof almost an old lady of ninety-two,
quite happy and well and intelligent. To-day we are going to Buxton; even Buxton would
smile on a May day without cold or wind. Morpeth never spoke so well or was so much cheered
as the other night, so I don’t care for the defeat; the poor Torie’s remark was
that the ministers bear beating without resignation. I have not seen the
Cliffords since they have been at Hardwicke. How quiet and
soothing, I think, that old place must be for them in this glorious weather!
You are by no means to leave Kemp Town, when you say; you must stay as
long as it is agreeable to you to remain by the sea-side. If I should take it into my head
to want to go to Brighton I should like so much to find you there, and I should have my
bedroom and library as usual, and you would not be in the least disturbed. But such a plan
of pleasure is not likely to be my lot. I am very glad for you all and for Lord Denman for Captain
Denman’s1 success. I wish
1Mrs.
Hodgson’s brother, the Hon. Joseph
Denman, R.N., distinguished for his eminent services in the
suppression of the slave trade, for many years captain of the Queen’s yacht,
and, as admiral, commander-in-chief of the Pacific Station.
you would send me a whiff of pure sea
air in a letter. . . . On Monday I go to Woburn for the royal visit there. The Queen boasted to me in London of having seen you, and told
of your reception of her. Morpeth has got immense credit by his speech. I hope he will be
firm in declining to come in to Parliament at present.’
Mrs. Robert Arkwright describes a tour on the
Continent in a letter of which the Duke writes that it
is the perfection of nature and truth. Mrs. A.’s, letter is
dated Sutton, September 9.
My dear Mr.
Hodgson,—Our tour was most charming, so charming that I can
give you no idea of it. Much and often did I wish for you, who would have been
so worthy of all that nature and art poured out to overflowing. I was more
pleased with France than I expected. It is certainly a fine country, though its
natural beauties are not interesting; but there are some things in the South
well worth seeing. The Pont du Gard is most magnificent, and Nismes, with its
beautiful amphitheatre and many other interesting remains. Arles, too, and
Avignon, which has a peculiar charm of its own, though there is not much to see
in the town; but the situation is beautiful. We went from
Chalons to Lyons by the Saône (the scenery is extremely pretty), then from
Lyons to Avignon by the Rhône. I cannot say how beautiful the Rhône
is; it far, far surpasses the Rhine, which is greatly over-rated. On leaving
France we went from Nice to Genoa by the Cornice—lovely; imagine going close to the Mediterranean for 200 miles, on a
ledge so overhanging it that you might drop a stone into it, and never leaving
it but to wend for a short distance among rocks of variegated marble, and
through groves of olives, palms, oleanders, oranges, giving out their sweetness
to the sea-breeze: then the Mediterranean—there is nothing on this earth
so lovely. Our sea is a fine, bluff fellow, and I love him dearly. But, my dear
Mr. Hodgson, you can have no idea of the exquisite
beauty and variety of colours of the Mediterranean. How I wished for you at
Genoa, and Florence, and Venice, and in all the intermediate travelling. Venice
is enchantment! and you must go directly, for they have almost finished a
railroad through the sea from the main-land. In another year it will be done,
and Venice no longer Venice. From Venice we went through great part of the
Tyrol, with which I was delighted. The country and the people are most
loveable, most attaching. Then we went to Milan, and over the Simplon into Switzerland, with which I was
disappointed. We came home by the Rhine to Brussels. This is a slight sketch of
our tour, and here is how I love it. First of all Italy,
really the garden of the world, its lakes, its mountains, its plains, all
exquisite. Its works of art, palaces, pictures, statues, churches, all miracles
of splendour. I had no conception of the treasures they contain; but alas! that
so much treasure should have been expended to perpetuate error. I was
disappointed in the Venus! She is beautiful in form, but
her head is insignificant, and altogether she did not interest me. Of all the
statues at Florence I most admired the Knife- grinder; that is wonderfully
fine: and a figure of architecture which makes part of a group on the monument
of Michael Angelo in the Church of Santa
Croce.
To pictures, with shame I confess it, I am quite
insensible, except in three or four instances. The finest picture in the world
is at Venice, and that I saw without the least emotion. The gallery at Bologna,
too, I cared nothing about; in short, I have not that sense.
Italy, beautiful, beautiful Italy, I place first of all;
then the Tyrol; then Switzerland, beautiful but stern and
hard—we should have seen it before we went to Italy and the
Tyrol—then Germany; then France. Of the mountain-passes I place first the
Stelvio, for wonder; the Ampezzo for beauty, oh, how beautiful! then the
Fintermünz—all in the Tyrol; then the Simplon. Lakes—first,
Maggiore, then Como, then Geneva. I saw no other
Swiss lake; but we saw Chamouni, very fine.
I almost forgot to tell you that the book I send you is
from the Island of San Lazaro at Venice, and was printed at the monastery
there, which was a favourite spot of Lord
Byron’s, and where he was instructed in the Armenian
language by Father Paschal Ancher. I was
sorry not to see him, but he was away for his health. Another brother showed us
all over the convent and gardens, full of oleanders, large trees. The
printing-offices are very large, and they appear to be very busy; the type, as
you will see, is remarkably good. I know you will accept this poor offering as
a sort of memento of Lord Byron, and as rather a curious
book.
Have you read Horace
Twiss’s ‘Life of Lord Eldon?’ I think you would like it. It appears to
me well written, interesting, and very amusing; and he has given private
anecdotes and letters of Lord Eldon, without compromising his
dignity in the least. We are going to Chatsworth on the 20th for a few days, to
meet Lady Granville. I shall call at
Stoney, from there, of course. With kind love to Mrs. Hodgson and the children,
I am ever, Most affectionately yours, F. C. A.
Lord Wellesley’s affectionate interest in Eton
was manifested in many different ways. In February, 1842, he writes:—
I am anxious that my willow-grove should be planted this season, and
called Wellesley’s willows. I would plant not less than a
dozen. In that neighbourhood most of my verses were composed.Ne quis sit lucus quo plus se jactet Apollo. I will endeavour to obtain cuttings of Pope’s old willow, which Lady
——— was barbarous enough to cut down. Let me know when
you are ready to plant, and I will send the plants. With your permission I will erect a
seat or pyramid, or both, under the shade of my willows, and will give a premium for
the best verses on the subject. I am most eager for all your improvements.
A few months later Lord Wellesley
was buried in the college chapel.
Of nearly the same date is a letter from Henry Hallam, respecting the portrait of his son, Arthur, the subject of Mr.
Tennyson’s ‘In
Memoriam,’ which may be found interesting by those who value, as it
deserves, that imperishable name.
My dear sir,—I have in my possession a picture of my
late son, painted for Dr. Keate by Sir
Martin Shee. It was returned to me by Dr.
K. after the loss that I sustained, partly for the purpose of
enabling Sir Francis Chantrey to execute
a bust, which he did with great skill and success. The picture was not restored
to Dr. Keate, he having expressed a wish that it should
continue with me. As I cannot help thinking that the ultimate destination of
such pictures, when they are persons worthy of the place, is the
Provost’s lodge, already so rich in monuments of art, and so abundant in
testimonies of Eton merit, I should be far more pleased that this picture of my
son—who, if his life had been prolonged, might have displayed the mature
fruits of talents which bore a very beautiful blossom, and excited the
admiration, as well as conciliated the friendship, of some now among the most
distinguished youth of England—should be placed where it may be seen by those who
remember him, and by others who are no strangers to his name. If therefore you
will permit me to send it to the Lodge1, and can find a
space for its reception, I shall be happy to send it down.
Ever, my dear sir, Very faithfully yours, Henry Hallam.
The poet Rogers paid a visit to
the Lodge in December 1842. On his departure the Provost wrote to him with reference to a
recent conversation:—
It is with something like fear and trembling that one even
approaches such an argument as that which you suggested last night. But I could
not prevent my thoughts from recurring to the defect in Milton’s answer to the supposed
difficulty of creation without the choice of the created; and I would venture
to ask whether a less unsatisfactory answer may not be found in some such
reflections as the following. First, that the blessing was conferred upon such
easy conditions as we cannot imagine any being endowed with reason to have
refused, could they have been previously proposed to him; and, secondly, when
the blessing was
1 This picture is now in the Lodge at Eton.
forfeited, there was the further unutterable mercy of the
Son of God Himself coming into the world to remedy the evil, and to say to us
again, ‘Take My yoke upon you, for My yoke is easy and My burden is
light,’—thus proposing a choice which the necessity of the
case precluded before; and, at the same time, promising us sufficient
assistance to do whatever He enjoins. In a word, the whole must be viewed
together to enable us to solve any part of the very first difficulty; nor is
this surprising when we consider whose purposes they are which we are
endeavouring to penetrate.
I am aware of the imperfect development of all this, but
thought it less unbecoming than entire silence; and if I am mistaken in that
opinion, still I am convinced you will not regard it as presumptuous. . . . .
By the words ‘imperfect development,’ I mean that the difficulty of
the permission of evil is not touched upon, nor the usual solution of that
difficulty, namely, that you cannot even conceive the probation of a moral and
intellectual being without such a permission, and upon the notion of a trial or
probation the whole history of man, as given in the Bible, is founded; a notion
corroborated by every day’s experience, and by the consciousness of every
reasonable being.
On the occasion of this visit the poet left his walking-stick behind
him, and thus acknowledged its restoration:—
I am sorry to have encumbered you with any of my property.
Dr. Franklin left his cane to
Washington. ‘If it were a
sceptre,’ says he, ‘he would have merited it, and would become
it.’ I would not leave you mine, for it would be unworthy of your
acceptance; and, were it a sceptre, I know you would not accept it. . . . .
What can I say in answer to such a letter as yours? I can only thank you from
my heart, and say God bless you and yours now and for ever.
Such visits as these must have added materially to the pleasure of
residence at the Lodge, itself a beautiful and most interesting old house, its walls
covered with pictures of distinguished Etonians. His ‘Hours of Idleness’ there,
which were not really more frequent than Byron’s,
are thus described by the Provost himself:—
There would he walk, not lonely tho’ alone, Call back the shadows of his pleasures flown, While oft their portraits to his pensive eye Reviv’d the memory of his friends gone by.
In the study was a bust of Byron by
Thorwaldsen, the gift of a
former pupil, which subsequently found its way to the sculpture-gallery at Chatsworth,
where, among other friends of the late Duke of
Devonshire, there was also a picture1 of the
Provost, by Sir Francis Grant, taken at the
particular request of the Duke, who thus alludes to it:—
Do you remember a picture you disapproved of in an ante-room
downstairs here? It is gone; but why I mention it is that the frame, a beautiful one,
was preserved, and, being divided, surrounds no less dear a man than the Provost of
Eton.
Hodgson’s bust of Byron by Thorwaldsen, was taken at
Rome at the same time as the celebrated statue, at present in Trinity College, Cambridge.
This statue was now on view in London—a fact of which Mrs. Leigh apprised the Provost in the following letter:—
Dear Mr.
Hodgson,—I have reproached myself for not telling you, what
perhaps by this time you have otherwise heard, that the statue, Thorwaldsen’s, is now to be seen at 14,
South Audley Street, at Sir R.
Westmacott’s, who is making a pedestal preparatory to its
being placed in Trinity College,
1 This picture is now at Hardwicke.
Cambridge. As it
is not to go into the Abbey, perhaps this is as good a place as could have been
substituted, and will interest you, who were present at his reception in that
college. I think perchance you and Mrs.
H., or somebody you know, might like to see the statue, en attendant, as your railroad facilitates such
flights I hope you are all well, and with kindest regards to Mrs.
H. and best wishes
I am yours ever affectionately and truly, Augusta Leigh.
P.S. I forgot to say, I have seen the statue and have
seen nothing so satisfactory as to resemblance since I saw the original.
The fact is, one sees the head and face in every point of view. . . . . I
do become very superannuating, and always think of poor B.’s horror of ‘withering at top
first,’ not from the same superabundance of brains, but wear and tear
of the few that I possess. . . . . But you do and always will sympathise in
my troubles for the sake of him, who is gone.
Augusta Leigh.
The insertion here of some fragmentary remarks by Lord Byron on the subject of sculpture may not be considered
inappropriate. ‘Sculpture, the noblest of the arts, because the noblest imitation
of man’s own nature with a view to perfection, being a
higher resemblance of man so approaching in its ideal to God, who distinctly made him
in His own image, that the Jehovah of the Jews forbade the worship of images, because
He was a “jealous God,” that is, jealous of man’s embodied
conceptions ot deity.’
But it is time to revert to the more official occupations of the Provost
of Eton. Very soon after his accession to office, Provost
Hodgson revived an old custom, which had long lapsed into disuse, of making
periodical visitations or progresses, as they were termed in the Eton Statutes, for the
purpose of inspecting the various properties of the college in different parts of the
country, of duly estimating the increasing value of estates, of providing for the proper
repair of churches, and the fitting administration of ecclesiastical functions in all Eton
parishes. The advantages of recommencing such a salutary practice are too obvious to need
comment.
At Eton itself no time was lost in bringing to a successful issue those
plans of improvement and addition to the college buildings, to which allusion has already
been made. Under the chairmanship of the late Lord
Lyttelton, and through the indefatigable exertions of Mr. J. L. Dampier, as secretary, the Committee of
Improvement were soon in a position to report progress, and on June 20th, 1844,
the first stone of the new buildings was laid by H.R.H. Prince
Albert, in presence of the whole college and school of Eton, after an
appropriate and solemn prayer had been offered by the Provost.
A few weeks before this ceremony Eton had been honoured, on the occasion
of Montem, by the Queen and the Prince Consort, who again visited Eton in October of this
year, accompanied by Louis Philippe. The frequency of
these Royal visits made it necessary to establish a regular scale by which the granting of
holidays on such occasions should be determined, and it was arranged that foreigners of
distinction should be entitled to ask for a day’s holiday, except in the case of a
sovereign, who might ask for a week.
Amidst these purely collegiate matters wider interests were not
disregarded. In 1845 an immense benefit was conferred upon the whole community at Eton by
the establishment of a thoroughly efficient system of drainage, at a cost of about
£4,000. The engineer who was employed to report upon the efficiency of these works
concludes his statement by a just tribute to the liberal and comprehensive spirit which had
actuated the Provost in his design. ‘Looking at the consequences in a more
extended view,’ says the engineer, ‘it is certain that your example will
have an immense moral effect, and you will be found to be
among the leaders of that mighty current of public opinion, which is absolutely
necessary to enable the Legislature to carry out those measures of relief, which the
deplorable state of the drainage of most places in these kingdoms requires.’
About the same time a sanatorium was built for cases of infectious
illness; and when the rival railways, the Great Western and the South Western, proposed to
lay down lines to Windsor, great care was taken to prevent too close proximity to the
sanatorium, or any other such encroachment upon college property as was likely to prove
injurious.
The restoration of the collegiate church was another reform effected by
Provost Hodgson at Eton. This was begun by the
removal of the grotesque and unsightly wooden reredos, which defaced the east end. A
proposal by an advanced churchman of the new Oxford school for the elaborate decoration of
this wall was negatived by the Provost, who was of opinion that any such (at that time
unprecedented) innovation would excite too much contentious controversy as to counteract
any benefit which might indirectly arise from the contemplation of a gorgeous
ornamentation. It is probable that he also disapproved of the proposed design from a purely
aesthetic point of view. The great
east window was filled with stained glass by a voluntary subscription among the boys, and
the west window was similarly improved by the Rev. Edward
Coleridge. The substitution of low oak seats for the old high pews provided
accommodation for upwards of 300 additional boys. By the removal of the panelling from the
walls of the choir, traces of mural paintings were revealed. They were left exposed to view
for upwards of seven months for the benefit of artists and antiquarians, and several copies
were taken. Finally the Provost allowed them to be covered by the series of stalls which
formed part of the architect’s design of restoration. Several of the canopies of
these stalls were erected to the memory of eminent Etonians. The Provost’s extreme
reluctance to put out of sight paintings of considerable antiquarian interest was lessened
by the fact that they all represented legendary miracles, attributed to the Virgin Mary, to
whom the collegiate church is dedicated.
On the best method of warming the chapel the Provost profited by the
experienced advice of Sir Joseph Paxton, the
talented originator of the great conservatories at Chatsworth, on the model of which the
Crystal Palace was constructed. A cemetery and chapel were established in the immediate
neighbour-hood of Eton, and the old Chapel of Ease in the town was
superseded by the building of St. John’s Church, of which the corner stone was laid
by the Prince Consort at the Provost’s request,
and which is now the parish church.
The addition to the college buildings was completed in 1846, and proved
of the greatest permanent benefit to the whole school.
Without dwelling in detail upon the previous discomforts and abuses
which disgraced the foundation, it is sufficient to point out that in one year there were
only forty boys in college where the founder had intended provision to be made for seventy;
and that as soon as the nomination system had been abolished, the entrance, intermediate,
and final examinations made realities, and the material improvements made known, there were
sixty candidates for one vacancy.
The historian1 of Eton, already mentioned, thus enumerates some of the advantages now
obtained by the college, but which, before Provost
Hodgson’s tenure of office, were conspicuous by their absence:—
A proper staff of servants was engaged to do all the menial work,
under the eye of the matron; the
1Mr. Maxwell
Lyte.
building was warmed and supplied
with water; and other conveniences such as studies, lavatories, and a sick room were
added. Breakfast and tea, like those of the Oppidans, were furnished to the Collegers,
who from thenceforth ceased to hire rooms in the town and to pay the dames for the
right of being received into their houses when ill. More important still was the
decision that a master should sleep under the same roof as the Collegers, and maintain
discipline among them. Nor was it the Collegers only who benefited by the erection of
the new buildings, for a spacious library was built for the use of all boys in and
above Middle Division. Dr. Thackeray, Provost of
King’s, gave some cases of stuffed birds, and other donors added artistic and
interesting objects, making the room a kind of museum. The Boys’ Library has been
justly praised as ‘the sanctuary of learning and the refuge of quiet to many a
boy for whom a public school would else afford small opportunity of satisfying a
desire for knowledge beyond the mere routine of school life.’
Eton scholarship received a renewed impetus by the employment at this
period of distinguished examiners, such, for instance, as Mr.
Creasy and Mr. Goldwin Smith, and the general system of education
was further benefited by the introduction of Mathematics as an integral part of school
work—a branch of learning hitherto entirely ignored. One other reform, which was of
the utmost importance to the general discipline of the school, remains to be
recorded—the abolition of Montem.
The origin of Eton Montem is lost in obscurity. It was probably a
religious procession to some shrine of the Virgin or other saint in the vicinity of Eton.
The character of the boy bishop, well known to those conversant with popular antiquities,
formed at one period a part of the ceremony; and continued to a comparatively late era to
be remembered in the mock representation of the parson and his clerk. This was very
properly abolished at the special request of Queen
Charlotte. But enough egregious folly was still inseparably connected with
the festival to provoke the indignant condemnation of all sensible men. Besides the absurd
procession of the school in grotesque costumes of the most motley description, besides the
authorised begging of alms by some of the Collegers in the character of highwaymen, there
was also to be deplored the extravagant expenditure of money thus rapidly accumulated,
which was squandered in reckless dissipation. Habits of debt and self-indulgence were too often formed, and a fruitful
harvest was provided for money-lenders and swindlers, whose numbers were now increased
tenfold by the introduction of the railways. These more serious consequences were well
described by the Provost, whose thoughts on this, as on most other subjects, found an easy
expression in verse.
Then, Fancy, fill thy dream With harpies hovering round the rich to seize Whate’er Imprudence yields to hours like these: While tradesmen, tavern-keepers, watchful wait, And credit-giving knaves prepare their bait With proffer’d luxuries, that a youthful life May toil to pay for with laborious strife, While thoughtless of the wrongs she works below, Wild Folly claps her hands above the show; Shouts, as her mimic soldiers pace their way, And waves her flag on Punch’s holiday.
Having long entertained an opinion that these evils were irremediable by
any measures short of the total abolition of the custom, it was with great satisfaction
that the Provost received in October, 1846, an appeal from the Head and Lower-master,
supported by a majority of the assistants, in favour of its immediate discontinuance. For
being assured that the popularity of Montem was so general and enthusiastic that any
premature exercise of authority in the matter would only defeat its
own object, and occasion widespread dissatisfaction among a large number of Etonians, and
being also fully alive to the advantages of the triennial Eton meeting, the Provost
determined to wait until he could confidently depend upon the moral support of the
authorities of the school and college. By the statutes as they then existed, this was a
matter which depended entirely upon his own decision after consultation with the
Head-master. But Provost Hodgson had always been
most anxious to act as far as possible in concurrence with the Fellows of Eton, even in
matters which did not fall immediately within their jurisdiction; and although this was a
question which directly concerned the discipline and management of the school,
independently of the college, and did not therefore require for its decision a formal vote
of the college, yet, in a matter of such general interest to Etonians, the Provost was
unwilling to take any decisive step without the counsel and advice of those who, from their
position as Fellows, were so closely connected with Eton, and who would naturally take a
warm interest in the discussion of such a thoroughly Etonian subject. The Provost
accordingly consulted the Fellows, clearly explaining to them that he was only asking for
their opinions and not for their votes.
Three agreed with him, four differed from him. But the Visitor, the Provost of
King’s, the Head and Lower-master, and a majority of the Assistants were with him,
and the Provost, upon consideration, decided that the majority at Eton was for the
abolition, and at once resolved to carry his decision into effect.
But for many years Montem had been honoured by the presence of Royalty,
and, as a matter of courtesy, the Provost thought it right to intimate to Her Majesty that, finding the evils attendant upon Montem
to be irremediable, he had decided to abolish it, and was anxious to hear that such a step
would not meet with the disapproval of the Queen and the Prince
Consort. This communication was made through Mr.
Anson, the Prince’s secretary, who, on November 12th, wrote that he
had laid before the Queen all the reasons which the Provost had adduced for the abolition
of Montem, that there existed in the Queen’s mind a very strong reluctance to giving
her assent to it, but that she should like to see its abuses removed without its entire
suppression.
The Provost answered as follows:—
With every grateful and loyal feeling, and more especially with a
deep sense of the interest shown in the welfare of Eton, I am so thoroughly convinced
by my own observation, and from the statements of those who are
best able to judge from experience, that there is much evil inseparably connected with
Montem, that I cannot help, I hope without impropriety, making one other effort to
obtain the Royal Sanction for the abolition of that custom.
He then proceeded to explain the strongly expressed views of the Head
and Lower-master on the subject, and concluded by saying:—
I have anxiously weighed all the difficulties of the case, and am
far from insensible to the reasons which have been so graciously adduced with reference
to old Eton associations, for the preservation of the custom. But the conviction that
many of its abuses are incurable, overpowers the strongest motive that I could have for
ceasing to advocate its abolition.
The answer to this was that although the Royal feeling in favour of this
ancient custom remained the same, yet that the Queen would not interfere with those best
able to judge of the influence of Montem upon the school in that which they considered to
be the conscientious discharge of their duty. The Provost immediately made known to Etonians that Montem was
abolished.
Beyond the walls of Eton various opinions were expressed; many, whose
names commanded respect, wrote to thank the Provost personally for his decision; of others,
who did not speak or write, it was aptly remarked, ‘quum tacent
clamant.’ The Press, also, made its remarks, and many were very
erroneous from the impossibility of any one, except those who were in authority at Eton,
knowing the exact circumstances of the case. In March, 1847, the year in which, in the
ordinary course, Montem would have been celebrated, a meeting of its supporters was held in
London, and an attempt was made to overthrow the decision, and to interfere with the
authority of the Provost. Many assertions were made at this meeting which untruly
represented the real state of the case, and it was altogether of a character more
calculated to damage than promote any cause whatever. A proposal was made to address the
Crown, but this was not carried into effect; Montem was finally abolished on June 6, 1847,
and an old Etonian wrote to the Provost, remarking that—
The Titans of Cockspur Street might as well attempt to pull down
Windsor Castle as to raise up another Montem.
Another writes:—
I cannot but admire your manliness in resisting an external pressure
to defeat your sensible decision, which, I am sure, has obtained the approbation of a
large portion of Etonians.
A neighbouring magistrate bore testimony to the improvement likely to be
effected by the abolition in the morality, peace, and good order of the neighbourhood.
Bishop Wilberforce, the Diocesan, wrote:—
The consciousness of high motive and, I doubt not, the issue of your
Montem struggle, will far more, I am sure, than repay you for a little contumelious
usage.
Lord Denman:—
You must incur some unpopularity by every reform, but the abolition
of Montem is a great and real one.
The improvements thus effected during the twelve years of Hodgson’s Provostship received due recognition from
the Public School Commissioners in 1864, and were not confined to the sphere of their more
immediate operation. The example set by Eton
could not fail to have a salutary influence upon other institutions of a similar character;
and, having regard to the many obstacles which he overcame (into a full consideration of
which it has, for obvious reasons, been impossible to enter), to the mingled firmness and
courtesy with which he withstood prejudice and conciliated opposition, and to the magnitude
of the results, directly and indirectly attained, it is not more than a just recognition of
Provost Hodgson’s services to say that no man, in so short a
time, ever conferred more lasting benefits upon the cause of enlightened education in this
country.
CHAPTER XXIII. FRIENDSHIP AND CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. LE BAS AND THE
DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE—LAST ILLNESS—DEATH—CHARACTER. 1840-1852.
About the year 1845 Hodgson received some consolation for the comparatively early loss of some
of his most intimate friends by the acquisition of a new friendship, which continued
unimpaired until the end of his life. On the occasion of a visit to Brighton he formed the
acquaintance of the Rev. Charles Webb Le Bas,1 whose social qualities were not less appreciated than his talents;
a mathematician, a scholar, an historian, and a divine.
The congenial tastes and sympathies of this newly found friend rendered
his companionship and corre-
1Mr. Le Bas
graduated at Cambridge as fourth wrangler in the year 1800. He was Principal of the
East India College at Haileybury for many years, and author of the ‘Lives of
Wiclif, Laud, Cranmer, and Jewel,’ in the Theological Library.
spondence equally agreeable to the evening
of a life which had ever relied upon the intercourse and solace of friendship. Visits and
letters were constantly interchanged, and literary, political, and ecclesiastical subjects
were discussed with mutual satisfaction. In this, as in so many other cases, it has been
found impossible to recover any of the Provost’s letters; but those of Mr.
Le Bas which remain have some interesting passages and fragmentary allusions
which, with a few other letters, will bring this memoir to a close.
The first in reference to the pretensions of the Papacy, a subject of
especial interest at that period, gives some idea of the ecclesiastical tenets of the
writer, which were in great measure shared by his correspondent.
June 25, 1845.
My dear Mr. Provost,—My remarks on Hildebrand were written purely from my somewhat
imperfect recollections of his history, and without any reference to books. I
have since, however, perused a very striking and instructive paper in the ‘Edinburgh Review,’ touching that same
gigantic mind, which you, most probably, have likewise seen. If not, I would
recommend you to lose no time in procuring it. It is, I believe, in the very
last number, and, I have very little doubt, is the production of Stephen, of the Colonial
Office. In some respects it confirms my own view of the character of
Gregory VII., for it gives him full credit for an
unclouded persuasion of the truth of his Theocratic System, and of the perfect
legitimacy of his own pretensions. How any man, or any set of men, could form
such a theory, with the Scriptures open before them, it is next to impossible
for us at this day to imagine; and yet the 350 extant letters of
Gregory seem to indicate that he had no more doubt
about the matter than of the Divine origin of Christianity itself. The reviewer
is further of opinion that, whatever mischiefs may have been inflicted on
society by this stupendous system, the evil was not altogether unmixed; and
that, in the absence of some such antagonist force, the reign of brute violence
might have been perpetual, and the greater part of the European population
might have remained in a state of serfdom, to this very hour. But, be all this
as it may, the name of Hildebrand ought never to be
mentioned by a teacher of history, without pointed condemnation of the system,
whatever allowance may be made for the man. His atrocious and vindictive
ill-usage of the emperor ought, more especially, to be visited with unsparing
reprobation.
A letter from Sir John Herschel,
of about the same date, bears testimony to the versatility of his talents, and the
correctness of his taste.
Dear sir,—I return you, with many thanks for their
perusal, Dr. Hawtrey’s
translations from Homer and Kallinos. Both are beautifully done, and read
like the ancient metres, which, after all, is the point to be aimed at. But of
the two I infinitely prefer the latter. There is, I fear, no denying
it—the hexameter, unvaried by the pentameter, is too heavy for the
English ear, which is attuned to such infinite (and I must say such delightful)
variety of versification. And if I might venture to criticise on such a good
critic, I should say that the one variety of which the hexameter is capable is
in this specimen in some measure wanting; it is here and there too uniformly
dactylic, canters too much. Nevertheless, I wish
somebody competent to the task would give us in English
a hexameter Homer, if only as a parallel to Voss.
But if I look with some degree of doubt as to the
possibility of satisfying the English ear with a long hexameter poem—even
with all the variety (no great amount) of which that metre is capable—I
have none whatever about that of longs and shorts, which
strike me as, if cultivated, likely to attain in English a much higher point of
metrical power (if I may use such an expression) than they have ever done in
the Latin (where they always to my ear carry something of feebleness and
puerility), or even in German. Their alternate lengths have an analogy to some
of our most pleasing and popular measures (eights and sixes), and seem even not
repugnant to combination with rhyme. As for example (I do not mean it as a
specimen of poetry, but only of metre):—
Throw thyself on thy God, nor mock Him with feeble desire; Sure of His love—and oh! sure of His mercy at last; Bitter and deep tho’ the draught, yet shun not the cup of thy trial, But in its healing effect smile at its bitterness past. Pray for that holier cup, where sweet with bitter lies blending Tears in the cheerful eye, smiles on the sorrowing cheek; Death expiring in life—when the long-drawn struggle is ending, Triumph and joy to the strong—strength to the weary
and weak.
Repeating my thanks for the pleasure your attention has
afforded me,
I remain, dear sir, Your very faithful servant, J. F. W. Herschel.
The Duke of Devonshire writes from
Hardwicke and Brighton:—
I had a very agreeable and amusing dinner at Lord Denman’s with many law celebrities whom I was
glad to have an opportunity of seeing. I love the railroads, and do not object to their
coming within sight of Chatsworth, but the Duke of
Rutland mourns over what he calls ‘the desecration of the
valley.’
The Queen knew your picture
directly at Chatsworth, and called her husband to come back and look at it.
Again from Civita Vecchia the Duke
writes:—
I received your most delightful letter as I was leaving Rome
yesterday; we have had a very wet winter all over Italy. I have just recovered from a
cold that lasted more than a fortnight, and that has not affected the improved state of
health produced by those wonderful baths at Gusteim in the Salzburg Alps. Either the
baths, or the mountain air, or the early habits may be the cause, but everybody who
goes there seems to derive the same strengthening and reviving benefits. I hope to be
in London about the middle of April. The great object of anxiety
now is really too distressing to write about, I mean the state of Ireland. I am
hurried, and must finish my letter without the rhapsody I meant to introduce about
Pio Nono, the liberal enlightened sovereign who is
hard at work to improve and renovate his country.
The following extracts from letters of Mr.
Le Bas, written in 1847, are highly characteristic of the genial kindliness
of his disposition and of the quaint originality which distinguished him.
My dear Mr. Provost,—Our præcordia are in joyous agitation at the prospect of your appearance among us once more.
There has been no epidemic here, save the
plague N.E. wind, and that seems to have been epidemic in the widest sense of the word.
There was no flying from it in any quarter through the length and breadth of the land.
However, that plague appears to be subsiding now; so that the little bipeds will have
nothing to fear. The Dean of Peterborough is
here—literally tied by the leg—imprisoned by a damaged shin, which the
menders of limbs find it difficult to repair. We have found just the house to suit you;
only you must make haste, or it will, probably, make itself wings and flee away—from your grasp, at least. So, let there be no long tarrying; but, let us know
your pleasure, incontinently.
Yes, I can very easily imagine the vehemence of the strife touching
the locality of your organ. For I remember well a similar controversy, which raged more
than twenty years ago, respecting the position of the organ in Winchester Cathedral.
Moreover there was a conflict of the same description at Lincoln, in the time of our
friend, Archdeacon Bayley. The issue, if I
recollect right, was different in these two cases. I believe the Winchester organ is
placed at the side; while, at Lincoln, it bisects the Cathedral. Fortunately, your
organ can hardly bisect the chapel, the ante-chapel forming so small a portion of the
building; though, to be sure, if placed at or near the western extremity, it will
conceal the view of the whole interior from those who enter the building. You must even
turn Papists, for the nonce, and invoke the aid of St. Cecilia! .
. . . You told me John of Lincoln’s1 advice; but, until your last, I did not know the decision of
your College of Cardinals. I ardently pray for the peace of your Jerusalem. ‘They
shall prosper that love her.’ Floreat
1Dr. John
Kaye, Bishop of Lincoln.
Etona! I can’t for the life of me help being very impatient
to know the result of the conclave at your Vatican.
I have been looking into Carus’sbiography of ό σμογερός. There
is, of course, much in it that is truly admirable. But, still, the compound is too treacly for my palate. There is vastly too much sweetness about it; sweet seasons, sweet counsels, sweet
meditations, sweet men and sweet women, sweet employments, congregations sweetly
harmonious, etc., etc., etc. The venison is, really, a great deal of it, very good, but
in parts it is so terribly overdone with loads of currant jelly! Sometimes it is quite
syrupy; e.g. ‘I have got such a lovely man to be your
curate!’ which is only to be paralleled by an expression which I recollect in
some part of the writings of old John Newton,
viz.—‘Eliza Cunningham is a very desirable girl;’ meaning that the lass was very amiable, and much to be
liked and desired for her simplicity and piety. I should
recommend an unsparing dilution of the oxymel in the next
edition. After all, however, Simeon was a wonderful creature, and bravely conquered for himself
a noble position in the religious world.
I have at last relented in favour of
Goulburn, in consideration of very long service
and exemplary personal work; and so—for my sins—I must race away to
Cambridge this day! You cannot think how glorious and beautiful old Oceanus has been
looking of late! . . . .
The Jenny Lind epidemic has
reached Brighton. The nightingale of Scandinavia has been warbling here this very
morning at two guineas a ticket!! I could almost find in my heart to wish the
nightingale with her sister as described by Virgil:—Populeâ moerens Philomela sub umbri.
You may possibly recollect that I once mentioned to you a Rescript
of Gregory XVI. to a French archbishop, on the
subject of the prevalent diversity of liturgies in France, as a striking instance that
uniformity of service is not maintained by the Popedom any more than by our episcopate.
This document is printed in Gresley’s
‘Treatise on the English
Church,’ 1844. But as you may possibly not be in possession of that
little volume, I have transcribed it for you. In fact, the liturgical irregularities in
France were—and probably still are—beyond comparison greater than any which
have ever occurred among ourselves; so great, indeed, that His Holiness is evidently
shy of meddling with them! Gresley refers to the Tablet, a Romanist publication, which complains that each diocese in
France has had a rule of its own, and has its breviaries and missals cut up according
to the passing fancies of each succeeding bishop. So that, however deeply we must
lament our own rubrical dissensions, we find that herein ‘no strange thing hath
happened to us.’ If the Pope hesitates to command perfect uniformity, what is the
Primate of All England to do?
. . . . O! how I envy you your optimism: ‘This life a machine
of so much happiness!!!’ Would to Heaven I could think it so! I speak this,
however, not in a spirit of discontent with my own lot, μή
γένοιτο, but with reference to the general condition
of the world, bursting as it is with sin and sorrow, ‘groaning and travailing in
pain together.’ Were I, myself, in possession of all the imaginable resources of
felicity, the wailings of the creation would, I verily believe, nearly destroy my
peace.
Our Lares and Penates salute yours with all cordial and friendly
greeting. Enclosed you have your MS. reference, &c., &c. I know not the author
of the article you mention; but if it is very good, it is probably by Boone, who was then the editor. The volume is at your
service for any length of time you may require it.
I contend, lustily and incorrigibly, that the unwillingness to leave this scene does
not necessarily imply the love of life. It is purely an instinctive feeling; quite an unreasoning instinct,
implanted, doubtless, for the wisest purposes; for, without this instinct, there are
multitudes so utterly wretched, that they would eagerly throw their lives away. Life
can have no attractions for them; and yet there is something
within them which shrinks from the loss of it. But that something cannot be the love of
a ‘state of being which offers them nothing but suffering.’ Observe, I
speak this apart from religious considerations. Religion, indeed, may reconcile us to
any intensity of suffering. But religion, even in its higher power and influence, is
sometimes very different indeed from love of life. And then, alas! how very limited is
its operation, upon the human race collectively! However, yours beyond dispute is the
more cheerful view, and, therefore, probably the wisest and most enviable. I do, most
unaffectedly, wish I could adopt it. Perhaps I might if I were a Fellow of Eton College
and you perpetual Provost. Yours ever, whether in weal or woe, most faithfully.
. . . . In a certain sense, optimism becomes all Christian men. For
what is optimism, but another name for the celestial
triad—faith, hope, and charity! Mere philosophical
optimism, however, must have a hard time of it in this weary world! Mine often gasps
for breath, in the midst of the present scene of pestilence, famine, and bankruptcy.
The havoc in the city and elsewhere is frightful. . . . . Be assured there is no place
like the ocean-beach for ventilating and refreshing your optimism. It is impossible to
be there on a genial day, with the waters below, catching all the variety of tints from
the skies above, without feeling that we live in ‘the best of all possible
worlds.’ Come as early in the spring as possible, and exclaim with me—
I am truly grieved to find that the assault of the Iron Demon is
likely to be double barrelled after all. But—Si figit adamantinesSummis verticibus Dira necessitasClavos, not even the majesty of Windsor or Etona can hope to resist; especially when iron
and gold are in combination against them.
We have heard from Cork-begg, but our daugh-ter takes no sort of notice of revolution or
rebellion, of pikes, or rifles, or vitriol, or broken glass bottles! All these things
she appears utterly to ignore. One would imagine, to judge by her letter, that the
prayer for unity, peace, and concord was actually realised in Ireland; and yet we are
told that Cork is feta armis, positively teeming with sedition, privy
conspiracy, and treason. But the ladies—Heaven love their innocent
hearts!—will seldom think evil, or see evil, unless it stares them broadly in the
face.
If you have a mind to lay out a shilling or two advantageously, let
me recommend you to procure a copy of Archdeacon
Manning’s recent charge to the clergy of the archdeaconry of
Chichester. Manning, you know, has the reputation of
high-churchmanship. You will find, however, in this address, no indications whatever of
bigotry or acrimony. A part of it is occupied with a retrospect of the Hampden case,
and his view of it appears to me to be eminently candid and temperate. It is true that
with regard to the question of Confirmation, he entertains an
opinion different from that of Lord Denman. But his
dissent is expressed in most respectful language, and is accompanied by a truly
gratifying testimony to his lordship’s high integrity and
worth, and to the genuine nobility of his character. I think you will find the whole
charge worthy at least of an attentive consideration. . . . . Our excursion to
Somersetshire was, in one respect, dreary enough. Jupiter Pluvius
was relentless in the exercise of his prerogative, and Ceres was
in tears. . . . . Your account of the castle and its Lares et Penates is exceedingly
refreshing. It speaks of stability to the throne, and of peace to the nation. . . . .
The attention of the Cambridge authorities will immediately be
called to the ‘Charlemagne of the East.’1 Another subject has been proposed by Mr. Wilson, Sanskrit professor at Oxford;
viz.:—‘Historical and Chronological determination of the extent, duration,
and succession of the Several Principalities established in Bactria, and on the
confines of India, by Greek Princes, after Alexander’s invasion of India.’ This subject has also been
forwarded to Cambridge. The Professor was led to this choice by his conviction that the
late discoveries made in Afghanistan, both antiquarian and numismatic, have not yet
excited in this country the attention they deserve; although these discoveries have set
the savants of France and
1 As a subject for the Le Bas
Prize.
Germany eagerly to work, and
although they are essentially a part of classical history. . . . .
The ‘Working man’ is admirable. Perhaps he has conceded
a little too much, with regard to the right of demanding labour. I take the truth to be
that the alleged right is not merely dangerous, but that it involves neither more nor
less than a sheer impossibility. The anathematisers of Malthus may say what they please; but numbers always have increased,
and always will increase, faster than any government on earth can find work to employ
them or provender to feed them. It may be the duty of governments to legislate and to
administer with a view to this end. But to demand work and provender of a government
seems to me about as sane and reasonable as it would be to demand genial skies and
fruitful seasons.
Brighton: January 5, 1849.
My dear Mr. Provost,—Here we all are by God’s
mercy safely launched upon the voyage of 1849. Let us venture to hope that the
navigation may be rather less perilous than that of 1847 and 1848. It would
appear from the recent job of President-making that the heart of France is not, after all, quite so thoroughly
republicanised and deroyalised as we imagined in February
last. The Republic is not in the heart of France, but in
the frenzied brain of the red-capped and red-handed maniacs of Paris.
What is to be the issue of it all? Another Restoration, if
we may believe a French Vicomte whom I met some time since, and who said that
there must, he feared, be terrible havoc and bloodshed before Henri Cinq should recover the throne of his
ancestors; not appearing to entertain the faintest doubt that the recovery will take place, sooner or later; that he
seemed to consider as a booked thing.
All the world is mad after the two volumes of the mighty Tom Macaulay; as mad as the opera-going and
concert-going world is after Jenny Lind.
I have not yet seen the thumping twins. To say the truth, I am haunted by
certain misgivings. Will the mighty Tom be able to
‘clear his mind of cant’—the cant of
Liberalism? Is there not something of mocking devil always at his elbow? Will
the Church of England get anything like justice at his hand? His strength may
be gigantic, but is he not likely to use it too much ‘like a
giant’? I am apt to distrust a man so destitute as he has shown himself
of all reverential feeling. . . . .
Hawtrey’s visit to Brighton
appears to have ‘rapt him in measureless content.’
Your mention of Fleming reminds me of
what I have heard recently, with great astonishment, that the Duke1 has taken hotly to theology; that he holds
post-prandial discussions on the Athanasian symbol, and turns out as a sturdy
Defender of the Faith; nay, that he is actually mighty in the Prophecies. Now,
only think of the Iron Man deep in Apocalyptics! Don
Juan’smarble man sitting down to supper with him is scarcely
more wonderful. Melbourne, they say, was
latterly a great reader of Divinity. But, old ‘Up Guards and at
’em,’ one can hardly imagine such a thing! Saul among the prophets
was nothing to this!
Referring to a house with a partial view of the sea, Mr. Le Bas writes:—
Whether this will be sufficient to satisfy the Provost I dare not
pronounce. For, such an ocean worshipper is he that I do verily believe he would like
the house all the better if its very walls were washed by the waters of the Atlantic.
It is even as you say just now! ‘Quâ terra
1Wellington.
patet fera regnat
Erinnys!’—with one blessed exception hitherto. European society, as the phrase goes, is in a state of transition; but transition whither? Our
children or grandchildren will have to answer that question. In the meantime it is ours
to implore that God’s gracious Providence may be pleased to preserve our
Fatherland from the torch, and the snakes, and the venom of the Furies that are now
abroad.
A fragment from Lord Brougham, of
this date, gives proof of his filial affection, and of his tender regard for his old friend
and colleague, Lord Denman:—
My dear Provost,—I wish to inform you that my
brother William and I are desirous of
erecting, jointly, a memorial to my father, an Eton man, and, therefore,
request a stall. But I especially desire the great favour of your giving us a
Latin inscription. He was a clever and accomplished man and a good scholar. We
can send you a note of the dates and age.
I was truly vexed to find the C. Justice ill and in bed. .
. . . I have asked Sir B. Brodie to come
and tell me particulars. He was out to see him yesterday, and called a second time. I
will keep my letter open to tell you. Sir B.’s man
told me yesterday he (Sir B.) was not at all alarmed. ‘Deo
gratias super hoc!’ Kind regards to Mrs. H.
Yours very truly, H. Brougham.
P.S.—I have just seen Sir B. B., and am very happy to say his
account is good, and on the whole comfortable.
In a letter, of nearly the same date, to Mrs. Hodgson, Lord Brougham repudiates
with characteristic indignation a rumour that his own health was declining.
I returned last night, and have reason to be thankful that I am
quite well, and that there is not the least foundation for the account in the papers
that I read my judgment in so low a tone as not to be heard. I believe I bellowed; but
it saved them trouble to say they did not hear.
Bishop Abraham, who for some years had been an
Assistant-master at Eton, and had voluntarily undertaken the difficult duties of master in
College, received, on his departure for New Zealand, a testi-monial,
in acknowledging which to the Provost he took occasion to observe:—
Allow me to thank you personally for your kind words on this and
other occasions, and let me assure you that, if it please God to spare my life, the
recollections of such kindness and such favours will help to cheer me on my way and
work in distant climes.
Brighton: October 31, 1850.
My dear Mr. Provost,—There is now a vacancy at
King’s, and (albeit no Etonian myself) I cannot suppress my anxiety to
know how it is to be filled. It has been understood, I believe, that Dr. Hawtrey is desirous of the appointment;
and, if so, of course all his friends must fervently wish for his success. And
yet, if he does succeed, where can another
Hawtrey be found for Eton?
So it seems that the Church of England is to be
overshadowed by a higher1 episcopate than its own. In
which of the new dioceses is Eton College to be placed? I wonder what certain
members of your fraternity think of this specimen of the Catholic antiquity, of which they are so deeply enamoured? Are they
prepared to accept the Pax Vobiscum of
1 In allusion to the Papal Bull given at Rome
in September 1850, establishing a Roman Catholic Hierarchy in England.
Monsignore the Cardinal Archbishop
Nicolas—not by Divine permission,
but by the grace of the Holy Apostolic See—etc., etc., etc.? And what
will Her Majesty’s ministers do?—a question which I almost tremble
to ask myself! And will all our Bishops protest as
manfully and faithfully as the Bishop of
London has protested? Are you entirely free from misgivings on
this point? We men of Sussex, it appears, are to be in the diocese of
Southwark! I should be thankful of good tidings of Lord Denman.
Accept the best wishes of Mrs. L.,
and of yours always right truly and faithfully,
C. W. Le Bas.
In allusion to the Lord Chief
Justice’s retirement from the Bench, Le
Bas writes:—
Will Lord Denman
permit me to take this opportunity of most respectfully expressing the
unaffected gratification with which I have listened to the chorus of applause
and admiration, which rung throughout the length and breadth of the land, in
honour of his retirement from public life? It is scarcely possible to imagine a
more enviable termination to a long career of useful and arduous service. . . .
.
Your copious and welcome dispatch makes me quite ashamed
of my poor, meagre, starveling missive! I have received
χρύσεα
χαλκείων,
έκατόμβοιʹ
έννεαβοίων. I
hasten to acknowledge how much I remain your debtor. I can scarcely describe to
you how much we were all annoyed and troubled by the complication of
circumstances which have disabled your admirable Magister
Informator from accepting the position, so frankly and honourably
tendered to him. The large heart, the open hand, the princely taste for
literary treasure—these have been his faults—if faults they can be
deemed. I can regard them only as the excuses of a noble spirit. Only if there
be such a bump in craniology as the bump of calculation, one can hardly help
wishing that such bump had been somewhat more amply developed in his
phrenology! The disappointment, I dare say, will not break his manly spirit.
But, the continued anxiety and toil! How many years longer will the physical
man be able to bear up against that incessant demand? Be all this as it may, I
beseech you to offer him the expression of my most respectful and most cordial
wishes and regards.
The great pending question has, of course, occupied much of my thoughts,
as it has occupied and absorbed the thoughts of every one capable of thinking
at all. And I am often out of the body with impatience at the brutish
perverseness of some, who are eternally chattering about the sacred principles
of toleration; as if Romish Dissent were in all respects similar to any other form of Dissent! It
is a Dissent entirely sui generis. Ultramontane Romanism dissents from
us, just as Czar Nicholasdissents from all factious and insurgent Poles! Whoever
dreams of persecuting or molesting the Romanists merely because they adore the
Virgin Mary, or believe in the Sacrifice of Mass, etc. etc. etc.? No; all we
now specifically want is to muzzle the Papacy—even
as our Roman Catholic forefathers did! The Papacy is a politico-religious
monster. Whether it be the Apocalyptic Beast or not, a
beast it is, which ought to have a bridle in its jaws and a hook in its
nostrils. And, with the exception of ourselves, every State in Europe, Romish
or Protestant, holds the bridle and the hook in its hands. I hope it is true
that our glorious little Queen is full of
indignation at this intolerable insult. I cordially sympathise with your just
and generous feelings towards the Church of Ireland. But alas! our
statesmanship (whether Whig or Tory) is so terribly
manacled by the tenor of our antecedent legislation and policy! It has all but
ignored the Papacy. It might almost as wisely have ignored Napoleon.
Finally, you love golden words dearly, I know. Here are a
very few, which I have lately met with, from the once world-famous Pico di Mirandola:—Veritatem Philosophia quaerit. “ Theologia invenit. “ Religio possidet.
The year 1851 bids fair to be an Annus Mirabilis indeed! To say nothing of Crystal Palaces, and monster toy-shops, and
Œcumenical Councils of the human race, it seems likely to be eternally
infamous for the triumph of triple crowns and red hats! The infatuation or the
perfidy of our statesmen and Parliamentary counsellors almost surpasses belief.
When, in short, was there ever such a labyrinth of follies and blunders? And
what—humanly speaking—but a dissolution offers the smallest chance
of extrication from it? A much longer continuance of such an interregnum of confusion must be almost enough to render Parliament
contemptible in the eyes of the people.
I do not know whether you are aware of a very remarkable
and original speech, delivered in the Spanish Chamber of Deputies, on
the 30th January, 1850, and since translated into English, and published at
Liverpool; price (I believe) sixpence? If you have not seen it, let me
recommend you to procure it. Its title is, ‘General Condition of Europe; by
Donoso Cortes, Marquess de
Valdegamas.’ It is full of the direst vaticinations. But the prophet appears to stand upon a most
commanding Pisgah; from which position he takes a survey of the destinies of
the civilised world. Some things there are in this terrible ‘burden of
the Lord,’ which, I confess, are beyond me! Nevertheless, the words of
the seer cause the ears to tingle, and the heart to melt like wax within us!
One most striking utterance of the oracle is, that the only hope of Europe is
in the Church and the Army. ‘What would become of the world of
civilisation,’ he exclaims, ‘were there neither priests nor
soldiers?’ But do look at the speech, and judge for yourself. One
thing must be recollected, the man is evidently an Ultramontane Romanist,
though a profoundly intelligent and sincere one. He seems to be the Montalembert of Spain; but I suspect of a
still mightier calibre than the Frenchman. . . . .
Well,—and now for the year 1852! A happy new year! Dare we venture to hope it? Alas! all the good
wishes immemorially appropriate to the season are well nigh forced to assume the negative form of deprecation: e.g. may Heaven graciously preserve us from such Christmas
pudding, pie, and snap-dragon, as that which now enters so copiously into the
bill of fare of Parisian entertainment!
But the Coup
d’État!—had you any conception that Napoleon III. was such an Olympian wielder of
the thunder-hammer? Waiving all question as to the moral
and political merits or demerits of this tour de force,
it is impossible to deny the consummate mastery of its execution. Never did the
bolts of Heaven fall more suddenly. On the 18th Brumaire, An. viii, Napoleon I. exclaimed, ‘I am the God of
thunder.’ But, all things considered, what was his thunder
compared with that of his nephew? And, then, comes the question,—What
does the thunder portend to us, and to all Christendom? We scarcely dare to ask
ourselves. It really seems as if the vast Political Pendulum were destined to
swing tempestuously, backwards and forwards, between Despotism and Anarchy, to
the very ‘crack of doom,’ without ever resting for a moment at the
safe intermediate point of Consti-tutional Government. In the meantime, however, let us rejoice
gratefully—albeit not wholly without trembling—in the peaceful
blessings which, hitherto, are vouchsafed to ourselves, and strive to show that
we are not wholly unworthy of their continuance.
Most devoutly is it to be wished that your version of the
Dictator’s ambition may be the right one. He may,
doubtless, himself aspire to a higher glory than that of ‘my
uncle’—the glory of being immortalised as the Napoleon of Peace. But will the Army let him?
Will they be content with the honours of a vast Police,
with bayonets in their hands instead of constable’s staves? Alas! my
dreams are of Armageddon! A huge thundercloud seems to be hovering over Europe,
and who can think of its bursting without terror?
A month later Mr. Le Bas writes
again:—
My dreams and musings are of Armageddon. My uncle’s nephew, you see, is mightily disposed to bully
Switzerland and Belgium. And, if he touches Belgium, the Temple of Janus flies open
instantly! for, have we not, together with other Powers, bound ourselves to guarantee
the Belgian independence? And yet, all this while, with what a profusion of butter and
honey is the adventurer labouring to pacify the growling
Cerbereous watchfulness of John Bull!
Have you any conception how the new Premier1 is to get on? If he abjures protection, or even appears to
waver in his fidelity to it, how is he to keep his party together? and, on the other
hand, how can he raise a finger against free-trade, without throwing the
land—from Dan even to Beersheba—into a state of insurrection? The thing, of
all others, which we want, is a strong government. But how is a strong government to be
had in the present decomposition of all parties?
I forget whether in any of my recent letters I have called your
attention to two small but very remarkable pamphlets, published under the name of
Pascal the younger? If not, let me now urgently recommend you to procure them. They
exhibit such an apocalypse of the mysteries of Jesuitism, with which Rome is at this
present more closely and intimately identified than ever. It is next to certain that
the author is a man named Conelly; an ex-Romish
priest, formerly chaplain to Lord Shrewsbury. He
was driven from the Romish communion mainly by his abhorrence of the execrable and most
pestilential casuistry of the Society
1Lord Derby.
of Jesus, which whole system is
stamped with the express and solemn sanction of the papacy by a decree of Pius VII.
In May 1852 Hawtrey thus
announces the death of Scrope Davies:—
I am sure you will be sorry to hear that our old friend,
Scrope Davies, was found dead in his
bed at Paris a few days since. He was a most agreeable and kind-hearted person,
and I shall not soon forget the pleasant hours I have passed with him. He
seemed quite broken down when I had a glimpse of him a few months since at
Eton. I hardly knew him again, and should not have done so had he not mentioned
his name.
Brighton: June 22, 1852.
My dear Provost,—Behold us once more on the breezy
Montpellier heights! but still haunted by blissful dreams of the Elysian
planities of Etona, with her genial hospitalities, and her kingly towers, and
her groves populous with illustrious memories. Truly our recent visit there
must ever be one of the sunniest spots in our biography. And Hornsey too was
not without its enchantments. On Friday last, more especially, we found
ourselves the com-mensales1 of a
very worshipful company of celebrities, viz.: Bishop Lonsdale of Lichfield, Walter
Hook2 of Leeds, Saunders,2άρχιδιδάσκαλος
of Charterhouse, Jackson,2 Rector of St. James’s (likely, it is thought, to
grow into a bishop sooner or later), Sir Charles
Trevelyan, Secretary to the Treasury, Thomas Bell, Secretary to the Royal Society, and the Reverend Dr. Scoresley, son to the old
Harpooner of that name; himself, I believe, a harpooner in his earlier days,
but now having long exchanged the whaling lance for the church’s
fishing-net. He still retains, however, something of the spirit of his original
calling; is full of the arctic expeditions, respecting which he discourses
earnestly and prophesies sanguinely; and is not without hope that Franklin and his mates, or some of them at
least, will at length emerge from their long and dreary occultation. When once
they are found or lost beyond all hope, I trust there will be no more voyages
of discovery to those ‘thrilling regions of thick ribbed ice.’
So you see, a very pretty quarrel has started up in the
Higher House of Convocation, touching the
1 At Canon
Harvey’s.
2 Afterwards respectively Dean of Chichester,
Dean of Peterborough, Bishop of London.
right of the
Primate to prorogue. Ominous signs of life these! If such sayings and doings
should continue, there will be nothing for it, I presume, but for the crown to
seize the extinguisher, and to put it all out. And yet, one cannot help wishing
that there could be some sort of safe and effective
synodical action. The Church seems almost halt and maimed without it. I have
just been reading Christopher
Wordsworth’s sermons on the Irish Church. They appear to
me, in all respects, admirable. If I were allowed to persecute a little, I
would sentence the unctuous Cardinal,
and his sour fanatical brother Paul
Cullen, and the apostate father of the Oratory to get them by heart, on pain of a pilgrimage to the diggings.
The next letter, which is also the last received from Le Bas by his friend, is strangely prophetic of the event
which occurred just a fortnight after it was written.
Brighton: December 16, 1852.
My dear Provost,—The county press (which comprises
Bucks), has upwards of one obituary column and a half in honour of Empson,1 who expired
at Haileybury, on Friday evening last. If the
1 Editor of The Edinburgh
Review and Principal of Haileybury.
paper falls in your way, you will find this notice very
interesting. It has not said one syllable too much of that truly admirable man.
One passage I cannot refuse myself the gratification of transcribing. In his
last illness Empson said, ‘Send my love to
Denman; and tell him that I do not
forget how long I lived under the shadow of his noble nature.’
This dying testimony cannot be otherwise than delightful, though mournfully so,
to Mrs. Hodgson and yourself. His
admiration of Lord Denman amounted almost to a
passion.—a passion at which none can wonder who knew anything of the two
men.
We have heard a rumour of your possible appearance at
Brighton. Has rumour spoken true?
Yours always very faithfully, C. W. Le Bas.
This letter found the Provost in the midst of the anxieties of Eton
Audit, immediately after which he was confined to his room by a violent attack of
influenza, which turned to erysipelas, and terminated fatally two days before the end of
the year.
For some days before his death he seemed greatly oppressed, and did not
speak much, except to mention his old friend and father-in-law, Lord Denman with tender affection and admiration. But at the last,
when all his children came to him he blessed them each singly, and after they were gone and
his wife alone with him he repeated after her their usual prayers, and exhorted her not to
give way to grief. Soon afterwards, sinking on his pillow, he uttered the word
‘Charming,’ and on being asked what it was that was so charming he answered
‘God’s mercy,’ and so expired.
On January 4th, 1853, Le Bas
wrote from Brighton to Mrs. Hodgson:—
It is quite impossible for words to express the heaviness
of heart with which I now intrude upon the sacredness of domestic sorrow with
these few lines of sympathy, I scarcely dare to add, of consolation! The voice of consolation will doubtless, make itself
heard in due time. But it can scarcely be listened to yet!
I know not how to speak of this terrible bereavement.
True, the deceased was full of years;1 and yet, to this
moment, I can hardly realise to myself his removal from among us. On the depth
of your own grief I will not presume to dwell. There is only ONE to whom it can
be adequately known, but
1Hodgson was just seventy-one at the time of his death,
having been born Nov. 16, 1781.
that ONE is known to us as the God of all comfort, the
protector of the widow and the fatherless; and, to His gracious and
‘fatherly goodness,’ I, humbly and most fervently, commend both you
and yours.
You will, I am confident, forgive me and those who belong
to me, for venturing to claim no ordinary place among the mourners. Our
desolation cannot be like yours; but our loss, too, has
been a heavy and a trying loss! I more especially have lost a true-hearted and
invaluable friend, and a bright example of benevolence and worth, to say
nothing of those graceful qualities and accomplishments which made his society
so high a privilege. I can honestly aver that the friendship and good opinion
of the late Provost will ever be regarded by me as among the most precious of
the mercies which have been vouchsafed to my own declining years.
A week later Colonel Phipps
wrote from Windsor Castle:—
I feel sure that it is unnecessary that I should assure you of how
fully I join in the universal sympathy that is felt for you in your heavy affliction.
It is impossible for any person to have quitted this world more generally respected and beloved than the poor Provost.
These two letters are fair illustrations of the affectionate admiration
which Hodgson’s character never failed to
excite in the minds and hearts of all those with whom he was brought into contact. His
varied talents, agreeable and courteous manner, refined intellectual taste, genial
benevolent disposition, and sweet temper formed together a winning combination which made
him acceptable in every society, and by the highest and the lowest were equally
appreciated.
At Chatsworth, where, during the latter part of his residence in its
neighbourhood, he used to stay for two nights in every week, he was generally the centre of
an admiring circle; and at Windsor, where, during the period of his Provostship, he was a
frequent visitor, he was highly valued. He had a wonderful fund of genuine wit and humour,
the easy flow of which in conversation rendered his companionship most delightful.
An accomplished scholar, of profound learning and deep research, was
once compared with Hodgson in the hearing of a
mutual friend, whose answer bore forcible testimony to the superior originality of
Hodgson’s talents: ‘You may fill the cistern
as full as you like, but you can never make it like the
fountain.’
There are those among his surviving pupils and parishioners who, after
the lapse in some cases of nearly half a century, cannot speak of him without enthusiastic
expressions of respect for his goodness, and of tearful gratitude for his friendship. Upon
the heart of his children, young as they were at the time of his death, an indelible
impression was made by his tender solicitude for their welfare and progress; and his widow
has ever cherished his memory with constant and devoted love.
The last years of his life were made very happy by the quiet pleasures
of home life at Eton, and by numerous visits to friends and relations, especially to the
Cokes in Herefordshire, to the Denmans in
Derbyshire, and to the friend of his old age, Mr. Le
Bas, at Brighton. All of these journeys were made in his own carriages with
post-horses, in consequence of his great dislike for railway travelling, and were rendered
most delightful to his family as well by his unfailing gentleness and good humour, as by
his instructive and entertaining comments upon the various objects of historical or
antiquarian interest on the way.
Byron’s prediction ‘you will rhyme to the
end of the chapter,’ was literally fulfilled; for his love of poetry was undiminished to the last, and hardly a day
passed without the writing out of some poetical reverie in Latin or English.
A pane in one of the windows of the College Chapel commemorates his
Provostship, and a monumental tablet was erected to his memory, with a Latin inscription
written by Dr. Hawtrey. But the best memorial of his
work at Eton is to be found in the numerous improvements which by his resolute energy, his
conciliatory kindness and his consummate tact he successfully inaugurated, improvements
which gave an impetus to similar efforts, and formed a fitting conclusion to a life devoted
from the first to the best interests of religion and of literature.
INDEX. ABR ABRAHAM, Dr., Bishop in New Zealand, ii. 311 (see Letters) Actors, French and English, i. 241 Ada Byron, daughter of the poet (see Lovelace, Countess of) Agincourt, battle of; ancestors of Hodgson killed at the, i. 3 Althorp, Lord, i. 117 Arian controversy, ii. 121 Arkwright, Mrs. (née Fanny Kemble), a mutual friend of Moore
and Hodgson, ii. 156-159, 161, 163; Moore’s reference to her, 89; her letter to Mrs.
Hodgson, 90; her account of a continental tour, 267 Arnold, Dr., his ‘Englishman’s Register,’ ii. 189 Arnould, Sir John, his memoir of Lord Denman, i. 45 BAKEWELL, Derbyshire; Hodgson vicar of, ii. 65, 105; his
restoration of the church, 194; death of Hodgson’s wife, 217; his proposal to resign
the vicarage, ib. Barwick-in-Elmet, Leeds; removal of Hodgson’s father to, i. 31; Hodgson’s
visits to his father, 145 Bayley, Archdeacon, his congratulations on Hodgson’s appointment as Provost of
Eton, ii. 258 BLA Beaumaris, described by Dr. Butler, ii. 210 Beckford, Wm., author of ‘Vathek,’ i. 163 Bland, Rev. Robert, editor of the ‘Translations from the Greek Anthology,’
i. 32, 40, 45, 165, 167; first edition, 226; edited by Bland and Merivale, ib.; Gifford’s remarks on his poems, 113; Byron’s
admiration of the work, ib., 274; Merivale’s account of its
origin, 227; second edition, 226; contributions by Denman and Hodgson, 230; Bland’s
original poems, 231, 242; his correspondence with Merivale, 232-249; his personal
characteristics, 227, 231, 233, 250; biographical notices of him, 189, 227, 231; his
illness and death, 249; his remarks on flattery, 234; on Holland, 235; on the French and
Germans, their languages and literature, 237, 238; on French and English acting, 240, 241;
on town and country, 243; Kenilworth and its neighbourhood, 243, 244; London society, 244;
study of Greek, 246; Frere’s ‘Whistlecraft,’ 248; his account of
Byron’s gift to Hodgson, 270; Byron’s opinion on his poems, ii. 80 (see
Letters) BLO Blomfield, Bishop of London, his ode on the assassination of the Due d’Enghien, i.
150 Bowles, his controversy with Byron about Pope, ii. 75, 77 Bowstead, Bishop of Lichfield, his congratulations on Hodgson’s appointment as
Provost of Eton, ii. 257 Bradden, Northamptonshire, Hodgson curate of, ii. 65 ‘British Review,’ its critique on Hodgson’s ‘Juvenal,’ i.
67 Brougham, Lord, ii. 173, 174, 222, 224; his proposed memorial to his father in Eton
College, 310; on Lord Denman’s illness, ib.; on his own
health, 311. Broughton, Lord (see Hobhouse, J. C.) Bullock’s Museum, i. 252 Buonaparte, Prince Lucien, his epic poem, ‘Charlemagne,’ translated by
Hodgson and Dr. Butler, i. 217, 278; letter from the Prince to Hodgson, 279-281;
Byron’s opinion of the poem, 281 Burdett, Sir Francis, i. 135, 136, 139; ii. 236, 237, 257 Butler’s ‘Analogy,’ Hodgson’s opinion of, i. 81, 132, 205 Butler, Bishop of Lichfield; Prince Lucien Buonaparte’spoem,
‘Charlemagne,’ translated by him in conjunction with Hodgson, i. 217; on
Yorkshire scenery, Wordsworth and Brougham, ii. 173; electoral corruption, 174; the Lakes,
175; his numerous avocations, 189; travelling post, 208; Brougham, 209; Crown influence
over public schools, ib.; visit to Beaumaris, 210; Reform Bill, 215;
politics in Church and BYR State, ib., 216; his appointment as Bishop of
Lichfield, 227; account of a thunderstorm at Middleton, 237 (see Letters) Byron, Captain, cousin of Byron, ii. 21, 22, 24, 135 Byron, Lord, on Drs. Drury and Butler, head-masters of Harrow, i. 36; on Hodgson’s
power of memory, 66; his friendship for Hodgson, 50; praise of ‘Hodgson’s
verse,’ 74; commencement of their friendship, 95; their congenial tastes and
feelings, ib.; at Cambridge, 96; ‘English Bards,’ ib.; notes on Pope, 98, 99; religious prepossessions, 101;
‘Hours of Idleness,’ 102, 109; the ‘Prayer of Nature,’ 102;
Hodgson’s friendly counsel to him, and its effect, ib.;
Newstead Abbey, and Hodgson’s visits there, 104, 112, 120; death of his dog
‘Boatswain,’ and Byron’s epitaph, 106; his lameness, 109; love of
mischief, 121; Hodgson’s admonitory verses to him, 159, 160; morbid
self-consciousness, despondency, and love of a bad reputation, 103, 121, 162, 172, 173,
174, 176, 187, 191, 193, 207, 212, ii., 49, 67, 207; on Spain and Portugal, i. 163; on
Hobhouse, his fellow-traveller, ib.; Greece and Turkey, 166, 175;
swimming from Sestos to Abydos, his pride in the feat, 168; attacked with fever at Patras,
170, 171; on his ‘cut-throat ancestors,’ 174; on married life, 177; return to
England, 179; meeting with Hodgson, 179; Hodgson’s lines on the occasion, ib.; death of Byron’s mother, 182; death by drowning of
Charles Skinner BYR Matthews, grief of Byron, 182, 189, 196; his first will, one-third of his personal
property bequeathed to Hodgson, 185; his correspondence with Hodgson on religious subjects,
191-208, 220, 212; fallacy of his reasoning, 197, 203, 207; influence of Hodgson on his
mind, 193, 201, 216; ‘Childe Harold,’ composition and publication of, 191, 210,
220, 224, 274, ii. 39, 41, 47, 50; Byron’s Calvinistic education, i. 192, 193, 220;
his epigram on Moore’s farce, ‘The M.P.,’ 202; his reference to his
lameness, 204, 221; his love of animals, 210; his lines ‘Oh, banish care,’ in
reply to Hodgson’s advice, 211; early disappointment in love, 211, 221; challenged by
Moore, 213; duel prevented by the tact and firmness of Hodgson, 213-215; letters signed by
him in Greek characters, 216, 276; in the House of Lords, 222; speech on the Frame-breaking
Bill, 161, 223; inclination and refusal to undertake reviewing, 224; his generosity, gift
of 1000l. to Hodgson, 268-272, 273; the ‘Giaour,’ 275, 280, 282; on Prince
Lucien Buonaparte’s ‘Charlemagne,’ 281; the ‘Bride of
Abydos,’ 281; revised by Hodgson, ib.; his power of memory,
282; references to Hodgson in his Journal, 281, 283; reception by undergraduates in the
Senate House, Cambridge; his gratification, 292; ‘Hebrew Melodies,’
Hodgson’s critique on them, ii. 1-6; his marriage, 6; early prospect of married
happiness, 6, 13; embarrassments, contemplated sale of Newstead, BYR ii, 16, 59; ill health, irregularity of food and sleep, 12, 55, 53;
residence in Piccadilly, 13; affection for Hodgson, 14, 17; indolence, 15, 18, 73; Lady
Byron leaves him; their possible separation, 20; Hodgson’s mediation sought by Mrs.
Leigh, 21; Hodgson’s interview with him, 24; correspondence of Hodgson with Lady
Byron, 24-33 possibility of reunion, 33; final separation and his last departure from
England, 34; his travels, ib., 37, 39, 40-73, 85, 87; the
‘Farewell,’ the ‘Sketch,’ and the ‘Dream,’ 35, 48; his
daughter (see Lovelace, Countess of); ‘Childe Harold,’ 39, 41, 47, 50;
‘Lara.’ 43, 78; writes that ‘as Hodgson foretold, he has fallen in love
with an Italian,’ 45; ‘Beppo,’ 50; causes of the separation, characters
of Byron and Lady Byron, 54-64; Hodgson’s criticism on Childe Harold, in
‘Childe Harold’s Monitor,’ ib.;
‘Manfred,’ 68, 88; ‘Lament of Tasso,’ 68; ‘Beppo,’ 69,
78; his lines on Newstead, 69; controversy with Bowles about Pope, 75, 77, 80;
participation in Italian politics, 78; remarks on tragedy, 79; on Hodgson’s
vindication of Pope, 81. 82; his cordial and bantering account of Hodgson to Moore, 86;
‘Don Juan,’ 133, 148; Byron’s last illness, death, and funeral, 134-150;
his last will, 142, 143, 146; his later religious views, 136, 148, 149; destruction of his
Memoirs, 137, 138; Hodgson’s proposal to write his life, 140; his lines on his last
birthday, 145; unacknowledged influence of Christi- BYR anity upon his character, 151; village and church of Hucknall Torkard;
burial-place of Byron; tablet erected by his sister, 152; monument to Lady Lovelace, ib.; description of Newstead Abbey in 1876, 153; Boatswain’s
grave, ib.; oak tree planted by Byron, ib.;
the lake, 155; Moore’s ‘Life of Byron,’ 156-165; Thorwaldsen’s
statue at Trinity College, Cambridge, 164; exhibited in London, 276; misrepresentation of
the separation in Moore’s ‘Life and Letters,’ 202, 203; Lady
Byron’s statement, 201, 204; his parents, 205; his alleged scholarship, 206; desire
of fame as an orator, ib.; bust by Thorwaldsen at the Lodge, Eton
College, 275; remarks on sculpture, 277 (see Letters) Byron, Lady, Hodgson’s admiration of her before her marriage, i. 289;
Hodgson’s opinion of her parents, 290; letter to Hodgson before her marriage, 296;
marriage to Byron, ii. 6; Mrs. Leigh’s affection for her, 11, 14, 17, 36, 42, 47; her
parents, and their probable influence on the separation, 12, 60, 61; her personal
appearance, 14; departure from her husband; probability of their separation, 20;
Hodgson’s attempt at mediation, 24; his correspondence with her, 24-33; a possibility
of reunion, 33; final separation, 34; its causes; her incompatibility with Byron, 54-64;
Byron’s death and funeral, 135, 143, 148; destruction of his Memoirs, 137-139; her
capricious estrangement from Mrs. Leigh, 198, 240; her answer to Moore’s ‘Life
CLE and Letters,’ 201, 202, 204 (see Letters) CAMBRIDGE, death by drowning of Charles Skinner Matthews, i.
182; the Public Oratorship, Hodgson’s unsuccessful candidature for it, 116;
Hodgson’s criticisms on scholarship at, 150; election of the Duke of Gloucester as
Chancellor of the University, supported by Hodgson, 259; Hodgson at King’s College,
21, 22, 23; restricted from classical competition, 21; general effects of the restriction,
ib.; King’s College, Hodgson’s appointment to a
resident tutorship, 80, 83, 94,124; reception of Byron by the under-graduates, 292;
Thorwaldsen’s statue of Byron, ii. 164 Canning, i. 257, 282 Caroline, Queen, Denman as her counsel at the trial, ii. 74; Byron’s reference to
the trial, 75 ‘Casket, The,’ originated by Hodgson, ii. 167; his friendly contributors,
ib.; letters from Rogers and Montgomery, ib. Castlereagh, Lord, 257 Charterhouse School, Hodgson at, i. 18 Chatsworth, Hodgson’s visits to, ii. 90; donative living of Edensor presented to
Hodgson by the Duke of Devonshire, 245, 246; portrait of Hodgson by Sir Francis Grant,
F.R.A., 276, 297 Clarendon, Lord, i. 117 Classical studies, the first Lord Liverpool’s views, i. 25, 29; Hodgson on, 34 Clermont, Mrs., Lady Byron’s confi- COK dential maid, Byron’s ‘Sketch,’ ii. 48, 60 Coke, family of, ancestors of Hodgson, i. 10; Richard Coke purchases Melbourne Castle,
11; his son, Sir John, Secretary of State, ib. his son, George,
bishop of Hereford, ib. 13, 14; Thomas Coke, vice-chamberlain to
Queen Anne, 14; marries Miss Hale, a maid of honour, ib.; descent of
Lord Melbourne, Prime Minister, 15; character of Jane Coke, mother of Hodgson, 16;
Hodgson’s verses to Mrs. Coke on his visit to Rugby, 254; Hodgson’s visits to
the family, 188, 268 Competition, classical, King’s men at Cambridge excluded from, i. 21; general
effects of the restriction, 22 Cottenham, Lord Chancellor, i. 227, 228 Cowper’s translations of Homer, i. 55, 134 ‘Critical Review,’ notice of Hodgson’s ‘Juvenal,’ i.
69-73, 129; Hodgson’s contributions to, 94, 149; notice of his poems, 155, 158 Criticism, Gifford’s remarks on, i. 115; see Reviewing Cum-Pooky, the Goblin’s Vale, i. 4 DALLAS, his correspondence with Byron on religion, i. 209 Davies, Scrope Beardmore, his friendship for Byron and Hodgson, i. 20, 104, 173, 189,
196, 212; ii. 39, 57; rhyming, a rhyme to ‘chimney,’ 181; Lord Eldon, 182;
death of, 321 Denman, Lord, i. 32, 218, 230; tutorship offered to Hodgson by, DEV 39; advice to Hodgson on law and reviewing, 46; verses on politics,
141; advocacy of Queen Caroline, ii. 74, 107; education of the poor, 106; Hodgson’s
congratulations on his patent of precedency, 177; Catholic emancipation, 191; his
admiration of Fox, 197; Reynolds’s picture of Fox at Holkham, ib.; appointed Lord Chief Justice, 214; on Hodgson’s charge as Archdeacon
of Derby, 245; on the abolition of Eton Montem, 290; his retirement from the Bench, 313
(see Letters) Denman, Hon. Joseph, R.N., ii. 266 Denman, Miss Elizabeth, daughter of Lord Denman, her marriage to Hodgson, ii. 241;
letters of condolence to her on his death, 325 Derby, archdeaconry of, vacated by the promotion of Bishop Butler, ii. 227; given by
Lord Melbourne to Hodgson, ib.; his first charge to the clergy, 245 Dermody, Thomas, his poems reviewed by Hodgson, i. 42 Devonshire, Duke of, Hodgson’s visits to Chatsworth, ii. 90; letters to Hodgson on
his continental travels, 246, 249; on Athens, 247; living of Edensor, in Chatsworth Park,
presented to Hodgson by him, 245, 246; association of Sir Joseph Paxton with him, 246, 248,
249; congratulations on Hodgson’s appointment as Provost of Eton, 255; his house at
Kemp Town, Brighton, placed by him at Hodgson’s disposal, 265; on Sir F.
Grant’s portrait of Hodgson at Hardwick Hall, 297 (see Letters) Devonshire, Elizabeth, Duchess of, ii. 125 (see Letters) DIS Disraeli, Isaac, ii. 76 Drummond, Sir W., his ‘Œidipus Judaicus,’ i. 218 Drury, Dr. (father of Benjamin Heath and Henry), his help to Hodgson in notes to
‘Juvenal,’ i. 37 Drury, Rev. Benjamin Heath, Master of Eton College, i. 20, 33, 86, 151 Drury, Rev. Henry, Master at Harrow School, i. 20, 32, 33, 164, 174, 173, 177, 181; his
account of the death by drowning of Charles Skinner Matthews, 182; 227, 261; ii. 74; his
continental travels, 111-119, 176; a candidate for the head-mastership of Harrow, his
defeat, 183, 184, 186, 192; Moore’s ‘Life and Letters,’ 203; his sons,
Archdeacon and Admiral Drury, 212; his death, 264 (see Letters) Dryden’s translation of Juvenal’s Satires, i. 52, 56, 59; his assistants,
56; Byron and Hodgson’s admiration of Dryden, 97, 123, 167 Dryden, Charles, his translations of Juvenal, i. 56 Dryden, John, junr., his translation of Juvenal’s 10th Satire, i. 57 Durham, Earl of, a pupil of Hodgson, i. 35 Dwyer, Edward, on the Duke of Gloucester’s election as Chancellor of Cambridge
University, i. 260; noticed by Byron, 278 ECLECTIC Review, its critique on Hodgson’s
‘Juvenal,’ i. 67 Edensor, Chatsworth; the living presented to Hodgson by the Duke of Devonshire, ii. 245,
246, 249 Edinburgh Review, its critique on Hodgson’s ‘Juvenal,’ i. 61-66; his
ETO satirical reply, 67; Gifford on the, 115, 130; on the separation of
Lord and Lady Byron, ii. 48 Education, Hodgson’s devotion to, i. 49 (see Eton and Harrow) Eldon, Lord Chancellor, strictures on, i. 125, 128; ii. 182 Eloquence, James Montgomery on, 101 English literature, study of, views of the first Lord Liverpool, i. 26 English and Latin compared, i. 54, 55 Epitaph in Hendon churchyard, i. 293 Eton College, Hodgson at, i. 19; his tutor, Keate, afterwards headmaster, ib., Hodgson’s contemporaries, 20; Hodgson appointed to a
mastership, 44; discipline of, 19, 118, 264; ‘staying out,’ ii. 117, 176, 185,
193; death of the Provost, Dr. Goodall, ii. 254; Hodgson recommended by Lord Melbourne, ib. Hodgson’s deference to the claims of Dr. Keate, ib. approval by the latter of Hodgson’s claims, ib.; Londsdale elected, 255; his voluntary resignation in favour of
Hodgson, ib.; Hodgson’s election and installation, 256; 255;
congratulatory letters, 255, Hodgson’s arrival as Provost, 261; his improvements in
teaching and discipline, 263, 282; Montem of 1840; the Queen and Prince Consort entertained
by Hodgson and Mrs. Hodgson, 264, 275; the Lodge, its pictures, ib;
portrait of Arthur Hallam, 272; bust of Byron by Thorwaldsen, 275; new buildings, 279; the
Queen and Prince Consort at the Montem of 1844, ib.; their visit to
Eton with Louis ETO Philippe, ib.; restoration of the Collegiate
church, 280; adoption of Paxton’s advice in warming the chapel, 281; origin of
Montem; its abolition proposed by Hodgson, 285; opposition to the scheme, 287; his
application on the subject to the Queen, ib.; her Majesty’s
reply, ib.; final abolition, 289; congratulatory letters to Hodgson,
290; death of Hodgson, 324; letters of condolence to his widow, 325; his character, 327 Eton (town), sanitary improvements effected by Hodgson’s influence, ii. 279 FALCONRY at Melbourne, Derbyshire, i. 12 Fletcher, Byron’s servant, ii. 53, 134, 136, 137, 144, 146-149 Foreign travel in 1820, ii. 111-119 Fox, Denman’s admiration of, ii. 197 French and English actors, i. 241 Frere, Hookham, his ‘Whistlecraft,’ i. 247; ii. 242 GAM, Sir David, killed in the battle of Agincourt, i. 3 Gamba, Count, ii. 136 George III., rectory of Humber given by him to the Rev. James Hodgson, i. 1 George IV., influence of his immorality, i. 51, 61; his animosity to Denman, ii. 177 Gibbon, remarks on, ii. 120, 122 Gibbs, Sir Vicary, i. 117 Gifford, William, i. 31; on Ben Jonson, 75; translation of Juvenal’s Satires, i.
52, 70; remarks on the HAR Roman satirists and English poets, 58-60; praise of Hodgson’s
Juvenal, i. 74-78; on Byron’s ‘English Bards,’ 115; epistle to Pindar,
106; letters to Hodgson (see Letters) Gloucester, H.R.H. the Duke of, i. 117; his election as Chancellor of Cambridge
University, supported by Hodgson, 259 Goodall, Rev. Dr., Provost of Eton, letters from him to Hodgson, i. 117, 151; his death,
ii. 254 Gregson, Robert, pugilist, i. 111 Greece, Byron’s travels in, i. 164, 173, 178; ancient Athenians and modern
Yorkshiremen, compared by James Montgomery, ii. 96 Greek, study of, views of the first Lord Liverpool, i. 25, 29 ‘Grey, Lady Jane,’ and other poems by Hodgson, i. 154; criticisms thereon,
155 Guiccioli, Countess, ii. 45 HALLAM, Henry, ii. 225; portrait of his son Arthur, presented by
him to Hodgson for the Lodge at Eton, 272 Hanson, Mr., Byron’s agent and solicitor, ii. 10, 16, 23, 46, 50, 53 Harness, Rev. W., his account of Hodgson’s visit to Newstead, his friendship with
Byron, i. 217-219; ii. 163 Hardwicke Hall, Hodgson’s visit to; his portrait by Sir Francis Grant, P.R.A., at,
ii. 276 Harrow School, ii. 75, 183, 192 Hart, Thomas, eye-witness of the drowning of Charles Skinner Matthews, i. 183; his
exertions to save his life, 185, 188 HAW Hawking at Melbourne, Derbyshire, i. 12 Hawkshead School, i. 1 Hawtrey, Rev. Dr., i. 20; on reforms at Eton College, ii. 262 Hereditary influences; love of poetry in the family of Vaughan, i. 20 Herschel, Sir John, on poetical metres, ii. 295 Hobhouse, John Cam (afterwards Lord Broughton), his friendship for Byron, i. 105, 108;
as the fellow traveller of Byron, 162, 165, 168, 174; publication of his
‘Travels,’ 174, 215, 217; ii. 8, 16, 35, 39, 53, 74, 135, 146, 149; his
negotiations with Moore and Murray for the destruction of Byron’s Memoirs, 137-140;
‘Moore’s Life of Byron,’ 179 Hodgson, family of; Rev. James Hodgson, Rector of Humber, Herefordshire; his marriage to
Elizabeth Vaughan, i. 2; her descent (see Vaughan); their son, the Rev. James Hodgson, also
Rector of Humber, 8, 9, 44; expenses of his matriculation at Oxford, 9; marriage of the
latter to Jane Coke, 10; her descent (see Coke); their son, the Rev. F. Hodgson, B.D., the
subject of this memoir, ib.; Hodgson’s father; his church
livings, 147; his sudden death, 148; pecuniary difficulties resulting to Hodgson, 147, 148 Hodgson, John, cousin of Hodgson, his account of the imprisonment of Sir Francis
Burdett, i. 136 Holland House, Hodgson’s visits to the literary salon at, i. 267, 277 Holyday, Barten, his translation of Juvenal’s Satires, 56 Homer, Pope and Cowper’s translations of, i. 55 Hope, Henry, i. 239 KEA Howard, Major, killed at Waterloo, i. 35; ii. 47 Hucknall Torkard, the village and the church, Byron’s tomb, tablet erected by his
sister, ii. 152; monument to the memory of Lady Lovelace, ib. Humber
Rectory, Herefordshire, i. 1 IRELAND, Rev. John, Dean of Westminster, i. 31, 76; on Socrates,
87, 137, ii. no; Byron on, i. 114; his book on ‘Paganism,’ 126 (see Letters) JOHNSON, Dr., on translations of Juvenal’s Satires, i. 56,
57 Jones, John Gale, his imprisonment in Newgate, i. 137, 140 Jonson, Ben, Gifford on, i. 75 Jordan, Mrs., i. 241 Juvenal, Satires of, Hodgson’s translation, i. 36, 37, 44, 45, 49; undertaken in
the interests of morals, 51; extracts from his introduction, 52, 58, 60; translations by
Dryden, ib., 56; by Gifford, 52; his remarks on Juvenal, 58; by
Barten Holyday, 56; by Stapylton, 56; by Congreve, 57; by Power, 57; by Creech, 57; Dr.
Johnson on the translators, 56, 57; contemporary critiques on Hodgson’s translation,
61-78; Hodgson’s notes to his translation, 65; Lord Liverpool’s acknowledgment
of its dedication to him, 93 KAYE, Bishop of Lincoln, his early recollections of Hodgson, i.
212 Keate, Rev. John, Hodgson’s tutor at Eton, afterwards head-master, i. 19, 150,
151, 209; ii. 189, 193 KEM Kemble, Fanny, afterwards Mrs. Robert Arkwright (set Arkwright, Mrs. Robert) Kennedy, B. H., Greek professor at Cambridge, ii. 190 Kennedy, Rev. D. (of Cephalonia), his religious influence on Byron in his last days, ii.
150 Kinnaird, Hon. D., Byron’s ‘Hebrew Melodies’ suggested by him, ii. 2;
Byron’s trustee, 53 King’s College, Cambridge, 124 (see Cambridge) Knight, H. Galley, i. 20 LAMB, Lady Caroline, her connection with Byron, i. 373, 274; her
novel ‘Glenarvon,’ ii. 35 Lambton, Lady Ann, Hodgson tutor to her sons, i. 35 Latin, study of, views of the first Lord Liverpool, i. 25, 29 Latin and English compared, i. 54, 55 Law, study of, Lord Denman’s advice to Hodgson, i. 47 Le Bas, Rev. Chas. Webb; his letters to Hodgson, ii. 292-315; on the pretensions of the
Papacy, 293; liturgical irregularities, 301; optimism, 302; Irish church politics, 305,
315, 323; Archdeacon Manning, ib.; Malthus, 307; state of France,
ib.; Papal aggression, 313; Lord Denman’s retirement, ib.; Roman Catholic dissent, 315; letter of condolence on
Hodgson’s death, ii. 325 (see Letters) Le Blanc, Justice, i. 127, 130 Leigh, Hon. Mrs., Hodgson’s friendship with her, i. 285; his correspondence with
her respecting Byron (see Letters); on Byron’s marriage, i. 294, ii. 7; on the con-
LET templated sale of Newstead; her love for the place, 296; her affection
for Lady Byron, n, 14, 17, 36, 42, 47, 143, ii. 9, n; congratulations to Hodgson on his
marriage, 19; on Lady Byron’s leaving her home, seeks Hodgson’s mediation, 20;
on Lady Caroline Lamb, 35; on Byron’s travels, 34, 37, 39, 40; her sisterly anxieties
for him, 39, 41, 45, 133, 144; childhood of Byron’s daughter, 36, 40, 46, 47; sale of
Newstead to Major Wildman, 50; on ‘Don Juan,’ 133; her letters to Hodgson on
Byron’s last illness, death, and funeral, 134-137, 143-150; on his last religious
views, the Bible given to him by her, 136, 149, 150; the destruction of Byron’s
Memoirs, 137; Byron’s last will, 142, 143, 146; one of her sons a pupil of Hodgson,
142; capricious conduct of Lady Byron, their estrangement, 198, 202, 240; her indignation
at the exclusion of Byron’s monument from Westminster Abbey, 200; her affection for
Byron’s daughter, 199, 201; account of a ‘Mrs. Leo Hunter,’ 238;
reference to Byron’s daughter as Lady King, and to Lord King, afterwards Earl of
Lovelace, 239; on Thorwaldsen’s statue of Byron, 276 (see Letters) Leominster, vicarage of, held by the Rev. Henry Vaughan, i. 4 Letters: FromTo————Hodgson’s Father, i. 119 Dr. Abraham, Bishop of New Zealand Hodgson, ii. 312 LET Letters: FromToMrs. R. Arkwright (née Fanny Kemble) Mrs. Hodgson, ii. 90 ” ”Hodgson, ii. 267Archdeacon BayleyHodgson, ii. 258Rev. Robt. BlandDenman, i. 45 ” ”Hodgson, i. 270 ” ” Merivale, i. 232, 235, 243, 245, 247Lord BroughamHodgson, ii. 310 ” ”Mrs. Hodgson, ii. 311Bowstead, Bishop of LichfieldHodgson, ii. 257Prince Lucien Buonaparte ” i. 279Bishop Butler ” ii. 172, 174, 189, 208,
210, 215, 216, 227, 237Byron, LordH. Drury, i. 163, 167, 178 ” ”Dallas, i. 209, 288 ” ”Gifford, i. 192 ” ”Hodgson, i. 105-07, 109, 110, 162, 164, 166, 168, I 173, 176, 186, 194, 202,
209, 212, 215, 216, 218, 221-3, 272, 275, 277, 278, 283; ii. 73, 76, 79, 80 ” ” Moore, i. 281; ii. 86 ” ”Murray, i. 281, 282, ii. 82 LET Letters: FromToLady ByronHodgson, i. 296; ii. 28, 30Edmund Currey, private secretary to the Duke of Gloucester ” i. 260Scrope Davies ” ii. 180Denmanhis daughter (afterwards Mrs. Hodgson), ii. 197 “Hodgson, i. 46, 141, 230; ii. 178, 191, 246, 290 “Merivale, ii. 105Duke of DevonshireHodgson, ii. 246, 248, 255, 265, 276, 297Elizabeth, Duchess of Devonshire ” ii. 125Drury, Rev. H. ” i. 182, 183, 261; ii.
111, 114, 117, 184, 186, 192, 203, 209, 213Edward DwyerHodgson, i. 260GiffordH. Drury, i. 75 “Hodgson, i. 77, 112, 114Rev. Dr. Goodall ” i. 117Bishop of Gloucester ” ii. 212Hallam ” ii. 272Dr. Hawtry ” ii. 262, 321Sir John Herschel ” ii. 295Hobhouse ” ii. 179Hodgson’s father ” i. 125, 128, 131,
133Hodgson——— i. 293 “——— ii. 126 LET Letters: FromToHodgsonMr. Anson, Private Secretary to the Prince Consort, ii. 287 “Lady Byron, ii. 24 “Rev. Francis Coke, i. 268 “Denman, ii. 177 “H. Drury, i. 33, 36, 38, 181, 188, 252, 287; ii. 80, 176, 194, 203 “his father, i. 142 “Dean Ireland, i. 90 “Lonsdale, i. 124 “Moore, ii. 204 “Rogers, ii. 273 “Miss Taylor (his first wife) i. 289Dean IrelandHodgson, i. 89 “ ” ii. 110Kaye, Bishop of Lincoln ” ii. 212Rev. C. Webb, Le Bas ” ii. 293, 298, 307, 309,
312, 313, 317, 321, 323 “Mrs. Hodgson, ii. 325Hon. Mrs. LeighHodgson, i. 268, ib; 294, 295; ii. 7, 13, 16-18, 20, 21, 23, ib.; 34, 37, 38, 41, 44, 49, 52, 84, 133-35, 141, 144-146, 149;
ii. 199, 200, 202, 238, 240, 276 LET Letters: FromToFirst Lord LiverpoolRev. J. Hodgson, i. 29 “Hodgson, i. 93Third Lord Liverpool ” i. 30Lonsdale, Bishop of Lichfield ” i. 147, 262; ii. 184,
187, 195Merivale, J. H. ” i. 40, 256; ii. 106, 218,
220, 222, 225, 229, 235, 236, 241, 251H. Merivale, jun.His father, ii. 119J. MontgomeryHodgson, ii. 92, 96, 168Moore ” ii. 87-89, 156, 159,
161-164Colonel PhippsMrs. Hodgson, ii. 326T. RennellHodgson, i. 284Rogers ” i. 275, ib; ii. 167, 221,
275Duke of Rutland ” ii. 65, 217, 245,
256Archbishop Sumner ” ii. 107Alaric Watts ” ii. 169, 171Marquess Wellesley ” ii. 258, 271Richard Whitcombe ” ii. 131Bishop Wilberforce ” ii. 290Charles Yonge ” ii. 183 Linwood, Miss, her exhibition of needlework, i. 252 LIT Literature, Hodgson’s devotion to, i. 49; his proposal to lecture on, 83 Literature, contemporary, Hodgson’s remarks on, ii. 71; Richard Whitcome on, 131 ‘Literary Souvenir, The,’ contribution to by Hodgson, ii. 169 Liverpool, first Lord, his patronage of Hodgson’s father, i. 9, 28, 31; his scheme
for his son’s education, 25-30; Hodgson’s translation of ‘Juvenal’
dedicated to him; his acknowledgment of the dedication, 92-93 Liverpool, second Lord, Prime Minister, a pupil of Hodgson’s father, i. 24 Liverpool, third Lord (Cecil Jenkinson), pupil of Hodgson’s father, i. 24; the
first Lord’s scheme for his education, 25-30 Llansainfread, birthplace of the poet, Henry Vaughan, i. 4 Lloyd’s lectures on Locke, i. 81 Locke, Hodgson’s lectures on, his view of that author’s works, i. 81, 132 London life, attractions of, i. 43 Longley, Archbishop, appointed head-master of Harrow, ii. 183, 192 Lonsdale, John, Bishop of Lichfield, i. 20; his early friendship with Hodgson, 95;
letter and verses from Hodgson to, 122; his poetry and Byron’s; the friendship of
rivals, 123, 151; verses addressed by him to Hodgson, 261, ii. 176; on the head-mastership
of Harrow, 185; on regeneration, 188; the Reform Bill, ib.; the
Divine government of mankind, 195; elected Provost of Eton College; his voluntary
resignation in favour of Hodgson, 255 (see Letters) MEL Louis Philippe, King of the French, his interviews with Hodgson, i. 32; visit to Eton
College, ii. 279 Lovelace, Countess of (Byron’s daughter), notices of her childhood, ii. 36, 40,
46, 47, 50; Byron insists that she shall not leave England, 46; monument to her memory in
Hucknall Torkard Church, 152; Mrs. Leigh’s affection for her, 199, 201; her marriage
to Lord King (afterwards Earl of Lovelace), 239 Lower Moor, Herefordshire, seat of Rev. Francis Coke, i. 23, 39 ‘Ludi Juveniles,’ MS. by Hodgson, i. 21 MACAULAY, Lord, his ‘History of England,’ ii. 308 Manichees, the, ii. 121 Manning, Archdeacon (now Cardinal), Le Bas on, ii. 305 Marlborough, John, Duke, and Sarah, Duchess of, i. 14, 15 Mary, Queen of Scots, Hodgson’s poem on, i. 107 Mathematics, Lord Liverpool on the study of, i. 28, 29 Matthews, Charles Skinner, i. 20; his death by drowning, Drury’s graphic account
of the event, 185; Byron’s grief, 189, 196 Melbourne, Lord, his descent from the Coke family, i. 15; Archdeaconry of Derby
presented to Hodgson by, ii. 227; his recommendation of Hodgson as Provost of Eton, 255 Melbourne Castle, a seat of the Coke family, i. n, 12; ‘History of
Melbourne,’ 12; falconry, ib. MER Merivale, John Herman, i. 32, 40, 45, 47; his joint editorship of Bland’s
‘Anthology,’ 226; his account of its origin, 227; his correspondence with
Bland, 232-249; his con- tinuation of Beattie’s ‘Minstrel,’ 249, 243,
277; his burlesque ‘Richardetto,’ 247; on the assassination of Perceval, 257;
Byron’s opinion on his poetry, ii. 80; on human notions of the Deity, 219; on the
death of Hodgson’s first wife, 220; on contemporary politics, 226, 236; on Serjeant
Talfourd’s ‘Ion,’ ib.; on the intermediate state
of departed spirits, 229; his congratulations to Hodgson on his second marriage, 241; on
the life of Wilberforce, 243; on the ‘Origin of Evil,’ 251 Merivale, Herman, C.B., son of the above, letter to his father on literature, written
when fourteen years of age, ii. 119 Metaphysics, Hodgson’s study of, his lectures at Trinity College, Cambridge, i.
82, 86, 102; his ‘Ballad on Metaphysics,’ 86 Milton, Gifford’s remarks on, i. 60 Miracles, Byron on the, i. 203; H. Merivale, jun., on, ii. 123 Montgomery, James, his poems, ii. 91; letters to Hodgson, 92, 96; comparative
intelligence of the ancient Greeks and modern English, 97-103; on the general appreciation
of eloquence, 101; contribution to the ‘Casket,’ originated by Hodgson, 168 ‘Monthly Review,’ its critique on Hodgson’s ‘Juvenal,’ i.
69; Hodgson’s contributions to, and editorship of the, 94, 126, 129, 133, 134, 144,
149; notice of Hodgson’s NEW poems, 156; origin of Bland’s ‘Anthology,’ 229; on
‘Childe Harold’s Monitor,’ by Hodgson, ii. 67 Moore, Thomas, Byron’s epigram on his farce, ‘The M.P.,’ i. 202; his
bloodless duel with Jeffrey, i. 213; Byron’s reference to it in ‘English
Bards,’ ib.; Moore’s challenge to Byron suppressed by
Hodgson, ib.; the subject renewed by Moore, 214; his second letter
retained by Hodgson, ib.; Byron’s anxiety to obtain it, 215;
the reconciliation, 214; the letter returned to Moore, ib.;
Hodgson’s tact and firmness throughout, ib.; publication of
‘Lalla Rookh,’ ii. 87; his ‘Meeting of the Ships’ translated by
Hodgson into Latin verse, 89; destruction of Byron’s Memoirs, 137, 138; his
‘Life and Letters’ of Byron, 211; ii. 156, 179, 198; correspondence with
Hodgson, 156-165; Byron’s letters to Hodgson lent for the work, ib,; his visit to
Hodgson, 158; misrepresentations of Lord and Lady Byron’s separation, 200, 203; Lady
Byron’s statement, 201, 204 (see Letters) Murray, destruction of Byron’s Memoirs, ii. 137, 138; Moore’s ‘Life of
Byron,’ 160 NAPOLEON I., his second marriage, i. 119 Napoleon III., ii. 247, 316 Newstead Abbey, and Hodgson’s visits there, i. 104, 112, 120, 179, 186, 218, 286;
verses by Byron, hitherto unpublished, on, 187; Hodgson’s visit to, described by
Harness, 219; proposed sale of, NEW 290; ii. 8, n, 14; sold to Major Wildman, 50, 51 Newton, Sir Henry, related to the Vaughan family, i. 5 Newton, Llansainfread, birthplace of the poet, Henry Vaughan, i. 4 Nicknames, i. 133 OPTIMISM, Le Bas on, ii. 302 PALMERSTON, Lord, i. 117 A Paxton, Sir Joseph, his association with the Duke of Devonshire, ii. 246, 248; its
commencement, 249 Payne, publisher, reference by Byron to his suicide, i. 213 Pearson, Hodgson’s lectures on, his views of that author’s works, i. 81,
132, 135 Pedestrian exercise, Hodgson’s fondness for, i. 44 Perceval, Spencer, Merivale’s remarks on his assassination, i. 257 Phillips, Sir Richard, publisher of the ‘Monthly Magazine,’ i. 229 Phipps, Colonel, letter of condolence to Mrs. Hodgson on her husband’s death, ii.
326 Platonism, Hodgson on, i. 152 Poetry:—Poems of Henry Vaughan, i. 4; descent of Elizabeth Vaughan, grandmother of
Hodgson, from him, 8; Latin MS. poem by her brother, 7; Hodgson’s love of, 48, 49,
95; Hodgson’s works—Translation of Juvenal’s Satires (see Juvenal);
‘Lady Jane Grey,’ and other poems, i. 154; translation into Latin verse of
Moore’s ‘Meet- POL ing of the Ships,’ ii. 89; ‘Ode on Greek
Independence,’ Montgomery’s comments on it, 92; ‘The Friends’, 66;
opinions of Byron and Gifford, 67, 75, 81, 82; ‘Childe Harold’s Monitor,’
67; reviewed in the ‘Monthly,’ ib.; Byron’s
opinion on Hodgson’s poetry, 80; ‘Saeculo-Mastix, the Lash of the Age we live
in,’ described, 82; ‘Sacred Leisure,’ 108; ‘Sacred Lyrics,’
212; ‘Leaves of Laurel,’ described, i. 264; criticisms on it, 266;
contributions to ‘Arundines Cami,’ 264. Fugitive verses in correspondence:
‘Ballad on Metaphysics,’ 33, 38, 40, 45, 86, 122, 139, 158, 167, 177, 254, 261;
verses addressed by Hodgson to Byron on the folly of scepticism, 159, 178, 179, 198; verses
on Moore’s visit to him, 159; verses by Byron on Newstead, hitherto unpublished, 187;
verses by Denman, i. 141; Gifford on Bland, i. 113; verses addressed by Lonsdale to
Hodgson, 263; verses by J. H. Merivale, 41; Lord Liverpool on the study of English and
French poetry, i. 27 Poetic harmony, Gifford on, i. 59 Poetical metres, Sir John Herschel on, ii. 295 Poetical translation, Hodgson’s remarks on, i. 53 Politics, Walcheren expedition, i. 119, 125; Napoleon I. and his second marriage, 120;
Lord Eldon, 125, 128; Earl of Chatham, 125; Alderman Waithman, 131; the first radicals,
135; Sir Francis Burdett, 135, 136, 139, 257; ii. 236, 237; John Gale Jones, 137; riots,
138; POO Napoleon I., 139; Hodgson’s lines on Burdett and other agitators, ib.; Byron’s speech on the Frame-breaking Bill, 161;
Whitbread, Castlereagh, Canning, 257; electoral corruption, 174; Reform Bill, 188; Catholic
Emancipation, 191; Reform Bill, 215; danger to the Church, ib.
Merivale on a change pf Ministry, 222; Brougham, ib.; William IV.
and Lord Melbourne, 225; Lord Brougham and Spencer, ib.; state of
France in 1849, 308; Le Bas on the Irish Church, 305, 315, 323 ‘Pooky,’ a Welsh name for a goblin, 4 Pope’s translations of Homer, i. 55, 59; Byron and Hodgson’s admiration for
Pope, 59, 60, 97-99, 123, 169; ii. 81, 82; Hodgson on, ii. 72; Byron’s controversy
with Bowles, 75, 77, 78 Portugal, Byron’s letters on, i. 163 Postage; double and treble letters, i. 35; franks, 189; the privilege exercised by
Byron, 215 Private tutorship, Hodgson’s dislike to, i. 35, 48, 117; ii. 105 ‘Puck,’ origin of the word, i. 4 QUARTERLY REVIEW, its origin, i. 114; Hodgson’s connection
with it, 132, 149; on the separation of Lord and Lady Byron, ii. 48 REJECTED ADDRESSES,’compared with Hodgson’s
‘Leaves of Laurel,’ i. 265, 266; Byron on the work, 273 Religion; Hodgson’s views on, i. 49, ROG 83, 102; Hodgson and Dean Ireland on Socrates, 87, 89, 127;
Byron’s prepossessions, 101; atheistic views of Charles Skinner Matthews, their
influence on Byron, ib.; Hodgson’s friendly counsel to Byron
and its effect, 103; Hodgson’s vindication of Christianity against the French
sceptics, 152; his admonitory verses to Byron, 159, 160, 176; Byron’s correspondence
with Hodgson, 191-208; fallacy of Byron’s reasoning, 197, 203, 205, 207; ii. 42;
incompatibility of the religious views of Byron and Lady Byron, 59; Church Congress
proposed by Hodgson, 83; Hodgson’s projected work on prophecy, 233; opinions of
Coleridge and Southey, 232, 234; Merivale on the intermediate state of departed spirits,
229; Merivale on the ‘Origin of Evil,’ 251; conversation of Hodgson with
Rogers, 273; Le Bas on Papal aggression and the Irish Church, 293, 305, 313, 315, 323 Rennell, T., candidate for Provostship of King’s College, Cambridge, i. 284 Reviewers, Hodgson’s satire on, i. 67 Reviews, Hodgson’s contributions to, i. 144, 149 (see Critical, Edinburgh, Monthly
and Quarterly Reviews) Rodney, Lord, a collateral relation of the Vaughan family, i. 5 Rogers, Samuel, contribution to the ‘Casket,’ originated by Hodgson, ii.
167; on Hodgson’s second marriage, 243; his conversation with Hodgson on religion,
273-275 (see Letters) RUF Ruffhead’s ‘Life of Pope,’ i. 97-100 Rugby, Hodgson classical examiner at, i. 94,128; Hodgson’s humorous verses on his
visit to, 254 Rutland, Duke of, living of Bakewell presented by him to Hodgson, ii. 38, 65; on
Hodgson’s proposal to resign the vicarage, 217; on his charge as Archdeacon of Derby,
245; his congratulations on Hodgson’s appointment as Provost of Eton, 256 SALMON, Mrs., her wax-work exhibition described by Bland, i. 252 Scepticism of Byron, comments of Hodgson thereon, i. 194, 216; lines by Hodgson to Byron
on the folly of scepticism, 198 (see Byron and Religion) Schools, Public, i. 33 (see Eton College and Harrow) Scott’s ‘Lady of the Lake,’ reviewed by Hodgson, i. 153;
Hodgson’s lines on Scott, 158; Byron on, 173 Sculpture, Byron on, ii. 277 Seaside resorts, their scarcity in 1821, ii. 126 Shadwell, Sir Lancelot, Vice-Chancellor, i. 20, 228 Shakspeare, his visit to one of the Vaughan family, i. 3 Siddons, Mrs., i. 241 Silius Italicus, ii. 125 Siluria, part of the Welsh border, i. 3 Skethrock, Brecknockshire, a seat of the ancestors of Hodgson, i. 3 Socrates, Hodgson and Dean Ireland on, i. 87, 89, 90, 127 Somerset, Lady Frances, an ancestress of Hodgson, i. 3 VAU Spain, Byron’s travels in, i. 163; ii. 165 Spenser, Gifford’s remarks on, i. 60 Sumner, Archbishop of Canterbury, i. 20; letter to Hodgson, ii. 107 Sumner, Rev.
Humphrey, Provost of King’s College, Cambridge, i. 37, 80, 86; his proposal to
Hodgson to lecture on Locke and Pearson, ib.; his death, 283. Swift, Dean, i. 6, 14, 98 TALFOURD, Serjeant, his tragedy, ‘Ion,’ ii. 226 Tayler, Miss, first wife of Hodgson, i. 268, 272; her death, ii. 217 Thorwaldsen’s statue of Byron, ii. 164, 200; exhibited in London, 276; his bust of
Byron at the Lodge, Eton College, 275 Translations of Juvenal’s Satires, by Hodgson and Gifford (see Juvenal) Trelawney, Mr., his account of Byron’s last days, ii. 143 Tretower, Brecknockshire, a seat of ancestors of Hodgson, i. 3 Tutorship, private, Hodgson’s dislike to, i. 35, 48, 117; ii. 105 Turkey, Byron’s travels in, i. 164, 167, 175; his notices of Turkish Pashas, 170,
171 VAUGHAN, Sir Roger, killed in the battle of Agincourt, i. 3 Vaughan, family of, their history, i. 2-10; Elizabeth Vaughan, grandmother of Hodgson,
3; her descent from the Vaughans of Tretower and Newton, 4; her great-grand-father, Henry
Vaughan, poet, the ‘Swan of the Usk,’ 3; his poems, WAI 3, 5 8; her grandfather, the Rev. Dr. William Vaughan, and his
collateral relations, 5; her father, the Rev. Henry Vaughan, vicar of Leominster, his
sermons and ‘History of Leominster,’ 6; buried in woollen, 7; her brother and
his M S. Latin poems, ib.; her father’s descendants, Sir Henry
Halford, Bart., 8; the Hon. Justice Vaughan, ib.; Dr. Peter Vaughan,
Dean of Chester, ib.; Sir Charles Vaughan, ib.; Rev. Dr. Vaughan, Master of the Temple, ib.; her
marriage to the Rev. James Hodgson, Rector of Humber, ib,; her son, the Rev. James Hodgson,
M.A., afterwards Rector of Humber, ib.; expenses of his
matriculation at Oxford, 9; master of Whitgift’s School, Croydon, ib.; his marriage, 10; her grandson, the Rev. F. Hodgson, B.D., the subject of
this memoir, 10 WAITHMAN, Alderman, and Mrs., i. 131, 135, 140 Walcheren expedition, i. 119, 125 Watts, Alaric A., Hodgson’s contri- YOR butions to the ‘Literary Souvenir,’ ii. 169-171 Wellesley, Marquess, his presentation of his bust to Eton College, ii. 258; his
suggested improvements, 271; his burial in the College chapel, 272 Wellington, Duke of, ii. 178, 215, 309 Wentworth, Lord, i. 291; bequest of his property to Lady Byron’s family, ii. 18 Westminster Abbey, suggested funeral of Lord Byron in, ii. 145; Thorwaldsen’s
statue refused, 164 ‘Whistlecraft,’ by Hookham Frere, i. 247, ii. 242 Wilberforce, Bishop, on the abolition of Eton Montem, ii. 290 Wildman, Major, the purchaser of Newstead Abbey, ii. 50, 51 Windham, Hodgson’s epitaph on, i. 143 Wooll, Dr., of Rugby School, i. 255 Wordsworth, ii. 173, 225 YONGE, Charles, on the headmastership of Harrow, ii. 183 Yorkshire scenery, ii. 173 THE END. LONDON: PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET